


Friday Night Secrets

by yesterday4



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Sexual Content, This is my way out of the epilogue, although it all ends up the way it should. Ahem. Language, etc. Spoilers for Braveheart in one scene., so it does include Draco/Astoria and past Ron/Hermione
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-27
Updated: 2009-10-27
Packaged: 2018-12-09 12:08:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11668818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesterday4/pseuds/yesterday4
Summary: After the war, Hermione and Draco meet at a Muggle pub, and it’s the start of something unexpected for both.  Then, what good are expectations anyway?  DHr.





	1. Chapter 1

Title: Friday Night Secrets  
Author: Edie  
Rating: R  
Disclaimer: Not mine!  
Word Count: 21,000-ish. Has to be split into ~~two~~ three parts. How annoying.  
Warnings: This is my way _out_ of the epilogue, so it does include Draco/Astoria and past Ron/Hermione, although it all ends up the way it should. Ahem. Language, sexual content, etc. Spoilers for _Braveheart_ in one scene.  
Dedication: [](http://bunney.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://bunney.livejournal.com/)**bunney** , this is for you! I hope it can provide a moment’s distraction. *smooches*  
Summary: After the war, Hermione and Draco meet at a Muggle pub, and it’s the start of something unexpected for both. Then, what good are expectations anyway? DHr.

  
****

Friday Night Secrets

The Muggle pub, two blocks away from Hermione Granger’s London flat, was dark and smoky. Loud music pumped, invading every nook and cranny, wrapping around the men and women involved in secret conversations, and making the vodka water in Hermione’s glass vibrate in time to the beat.

Hermione liked it here. Every Friday, regular as clockwork, she came here, sitting in her usual table in the back corner. She liked to watch them, like to see without being seen (and there were ways). They fascinated her, the Muggles. Not a one of them knew the names Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, or Hermione Granger. Not a one of them had felt the Cruciatus Curse sear its way through their bodies, not a one of them knew of a war that could have annihilated them, had it been lost. It was strange and freeing to be surrounded by people who didn’t know what she’d given up to protect any of their children born with the same gifts she had, or the suffering she’d endured for having once been one of them. Sometimes she wondered what it would have been like to have stayed in the Muggle world, but it was a fleeting thought, one she only ever entertained here.

Hermione Granger was a witch, and that was all there was to it. Every Friday night, she sat alone and had a drink with ghosts, to the ghosts, and for the ghosts. She remembered and she mourned the faces she’d never see again, people laid to rest for people who had no idea.

But tonight, this Friday, Hermione wasn’t watching the people. More accurately, she was watching just one person.

When she’d spotted him three weeks ago, it had been a shock. She’d wanted to haul him out of here, wanted to tell him to try something nefarious and evil, merely so she could hex him silly. He had defected just in time during the war, and resentment was a strangely lingering thing, even if most of the hatred she’d once felt was gone.

Thus far, he hadn’t been exactly evil. What he had been was varying degrees of drunk, and absolutely hell-bent on finding a willing Muggle woman—and they were willing, the women. Objectively speaking, he was good looking when he wasn’t sneering and, even here in clothes that were tailored in another world entirely, he looked like money. Here with people who were and weren’t hers, he looked fast, dangerous, and powerful—a deadly combination to these Muggle women who didn’t _know_.

One thought kept her at her table, then and now, away from him. If the Muggles didn’t know the names Potter, Weasley, and Granger, they certainly didn’t know the name Malfoy. Who was Hermione to deny him an escape, if that was what he was after? This place was her secret, where she could come without being someone. This place was his secret too. It was not their secret together.

So she sat back, Friday after Friday, and sipped her drink; watched as he murmured charming nothings to a Muggle with jet black hair and a promising smile.

**

By day, Saturday to Thursday, Hermione Granger was something else entirely, and that someone was far too busy for an evening for herself. She was the on again off again girlfriend of Ron Weasley (off currently because she was not Molly, not Ginny, and because she had a Friday night secret—a Friday night _lover_ , according to Ron). For the Ministry, she worked tirelessly on rehabilitative magic—they were all veterans, and there was work to be done.

Incidentally, even here she was not entirely free of Draco Malfoy. He worked nearby, two corridors over specifically, on potions, which occasionally involved liaising with her department. He was neither liked nor accepted, not really, but he was tolerated for his talent. As mired as the Malfoy name was, it still had clout—Hermione suspected he was also valued for his pocketbook.

Even now, he was in her office—figuratively, at least—smirking up at her from the front page of Tuesday’s _Daily Prophet_. “MALFOY HEIR DONATES TO NEW WING OF ST. MUNGO’S”, blasted the headline (“PR at its finest,” snickered Hermione). On his arm in the photo stood a coolly beautiful woman, a true Narcissa knock off if Hermione had ever seen one. This was Astoria Greengrass, his wife-to-be come July. Hermione did not remember Astoria from Hogwarts, although she did recall Daphne with some distaste.

Astoria’s smile, coming and going in the photo, was pretty and empty. Hermione wondered what she knew of sultry Muggle girls and Friday night lies.

**

This Friday, the third Friday of March, Draco Malfoy was absent. Hermione scoured the pub with her gaze, but he was hard to miss with that shock of light hair and that I’m-someone-important presence; he was nowhere to be found. Inexplicably annoyed, Hermione sloshed her drink in her glass and frowned. Her secret, his secret, not their secret, but it felt odd to be here alone after so many weeks of being here not together. Had he tired of whatever he was playing at? Had Astoria found out?

Sighing to herself, Hermione debated the logistics of telling Harry and Ron for the millionth time. She had never been sure what kept her mum—surely they’d understand—but she couldn’t bring herself to say it. She made a point of going about her daily business calm and composed, and if she wanted to mingle with Muggles and brood then—

Something hard and pointed pressed into her side. This was the Muggle world and Hermione wasn’t expecting it, but she knew the feel of the business end of a wand. And she knew she had been wrong earlier about Malfoy’s absence.

“Who are you?” he hissed, voice low and serious. “I am not one of them. I can feel your magic.”

Chagrined at being found out but not stupid enough to keep antagonizing a former Death Eater in a Muggle pub, Hermione took a cautious look around before whispering the words to end her concealment charm. She knew a brief moment of satisfaction when surprise flitted across Malfoy’s face; then his expression hardened with distaste and the scowl he never showed the Muggle women blackened his features.

Not to be outdone, Hermione scowled right back. “What were you going to do? Hex me in front of all these people? What a nightmare that would be.”

Malfoy shrugged, narrowing his eyes. No plan then. He asked, “Are you spying on me?”

“Hardly,” huffed Hermione. “I came here first.”

He removed his wand from her side, pocketing it before it could be noticed. After a surreptitious glance around, Draco Malfoy surprised her yet again; he slid smoothly into the seat across from hers, and crossed his arms on the table, sending her a look that was all business.

“Why?” he demanded. There was no drink in his hands tonight, and his icy eyes were deadly sober.

“Why do you?” she returned. Her world felt off-kilter, sitting alone in a Muggle pub with _him_ , of all people. She wanted to tell him to leave, even as punch drunk courage swelled inside of her. She’d always been rather foolhardy, or that was how he would see it. Steadily, she added, “Does Astoria know?”

“Does Weasley?” he snapped right back.

Four questions in a row and no answers, Hermione observed, feeling a familiar annoyance settle over her. Glowering across the table, she noticed something else, noticed that something was rather off about him, up close and in her world. He looked defensive and threatened—he looked _uncomfortable_. In fact, what he looked was ashamed. She stared hard at his face, at the tiny scar below his right eye, at the hard line of his mouth. He was still pointy and sharp, but she had been right earlier: to the casual viewer, he was not unattractive.

Hermione’s honest answer surprised even her. “I’m not with Ron at the moment, not that that’s your concern, but no. I never told him.”

She was expecting a scathing retort, but her honesty seemed to take the wind from his sails. Drumming his fingers edgily on the scarred tabletop, he stared right back at her. Hermione found his gaze, too alert and too all seeing, unsettling.

“Astoria doesn’t care,” he replied in a tone that said _this is how these things go_. Off her look, he was quick to add, “I’m careful and discreet, as requested. Naturally, she’ll be free to do as she pleases with whom she pleases once we have a son. I do hope you weren’t harbouring strange delusions about love, Granger.”

He sounded like he was reading from a contract. This is how these things go, thought Hermione. On edge, she tried to stifle her curiosity, but it overwhelmed her within moments—a fault, she knew it.

“What then?” she blurted. “Why the women? Trying to stick it to Daddy?”

Anger flashed in Malfoy’s eyes, and a heady fear twisted her stomach. He looked mad, strange and possessed. Beautifully honest, whispered an awful voice. Hermione wondered if she’d gone too far.

Abruptly, he leaned forward. “Have you ever done it, Granger? They’re so incredibly stupid, so bloody clueless.” The anger was gone as fast as it appeared; she thought he was unstable when he flashed her a rueful grin. “I quite like them for it.”

He was only going to take so much, Hermione knew. Still, she reached across the table, catching his arm in her hand. It had been ages since she’d touched him willingly—third year, in fact—and his skin, beneath her palm, was cold.

“How do you explain this, when they ask?” she asked, not looking down at the ugly disfiguration under her fingers. They both knew what she meant.

“I never have to,” said Malfoy, tone low. "It's nothing to them."

He didn’t jerk away, not like she’d expected, and so she was the one who dropped his arm. Imagination, of course, but her palm felt tingly, and she had to resist the urge to wipe her hand on her skirt. The look in his eyes was too much, as if he knew everything in the world about Friday night secrets, like the intimacy of sharing it had made him sit and kept him here still.

“Do I have to apologize for you to keep this quiet? You won’t believe me if I do anyway.” His tone was positively biting now, but he was ever the Slytherin—he expected blackmail. “I’d take it back if I could, all of it, but I can’t, can I? I was what I was, and you were what you were. Back then, back at the beginning, you have to know that me choosing any other path would have been like you choosing to be a Death Eater.”

Hermione dropped her gaze, but the tension in her stomach didn’t ease and she could feel his eyes on her without looking. She didn’t really want to hear it. “I’ve known for weeks, Malfoy. Your secret is safe.”

That seemed to surprise him too because the next words from his mouth were, “Why didn’t you come say hello?”

Hermione made a noise caught between a scoff and a laugh. “Why on earth would I have done that?”

“Seems like basic manners,” he retorted, seeming genuinely affronted. “We’ve known each other for years. We practically work beside each other. I had a meeting with you yesterday morning.”

There was nothing really to say to that so she shrugged. Objectively speaking, he was most likely right. Still, she found it hard to believe that he would have said hello to her… only she didn’t, not really. Malfoy would have said hello to upset things, just like he was upsetting things now by sitting with her.

Abruptly, he tired of his line of questioning, dismissing it with an elegant wave of his hand. “Anyway, you didn’t answer my previous question: have you ever done it?”

The fiendish glint in Malfoy’s eyes put Hermione off. Cautiously, she asked, “Done what?”

“A _Muggle_ ,” he clarified with a dramatic eye roll. “Although there was something strangely off-putting about you with that concealment charm so that would have been a challenge. Tell me, was it insurmountable?”

“Oh, you noticed! I did it on purpose. A mild alteration really. You see, I don’t _want_ their attention. I just like to watch them, to try to figure them out, you know? And so I merely made a few modifications, and made myself mildly repulsive to passers-by.” She smiled, pleased with her smart self.

“That must have been very challenging for you,” he said dryly.

“I don’t want to shag them,” she clarified in her loftiest tone.

Malfoy rolled his eyes again with rather less aplomb and slouched back in his seat, watching her. Talking to Malfoy had never been part of Hermione’s Friday night plan. Still, it was odd because he seemed to get it, in his own way. It was wrong that he did, but Hermione hadn’t encountered that in years, and it was strangely freeing. She never would have thought that Malfoy of all people would get it. A rather sick thrill shot through her; she felt like giggling.

“They don’t have to think about the things we do,” she continued, just to say something. The feeling in her stomach was unusual and heavy, inspired in part by the light in his eyes. Bloody hell, he really was attractive.

 _We_ was a strange thing to say, but Malfoy surprised her by smiling. Then, using air quotes with his fingers, he ruined it all.

"Want to stick it to my father, Granger?" he asked, smirking the smirk she'd seen him direct at Muggle girls. "That would really take the cake, wouldn't it?"

Hermione had had only one lover, and that had been Ron. Never in her wildest dreams had she ever even so much as entertained the thought of knowing Malfoy in that manner. Thusly, she pulled a face, ignoring the pull in her belly, the strange tension in the air.

"I would rather kill myself," she told him primly, "than shag you."

Malfoy crooked her a smile. "We'll see about that, Granger. We'll see." Then, he turned in his seat, flagged down a waitress, and ordered them both another round of drinks.

**

Despite her rather bold statement, they ended up at her flat, Apparating side-by-side in a tangle of limbs. Feeling quite outside of herself and still high on that odd feeling of kinship, Hermione ordered Malfoy to stay in her living room, before disappearing to the bathroom.

There _was_ a certain appeal in sticking it to Lucius Malfoy, Hermione figured, and an even greater appeal in sticking it to his son. She wished she was drunker--or drunk at all. But then, she figured, she was in her twenties, and didn't young people do this? Normal people who hadn't almost been killed more times than they could count? Malfoy was good looking, and didn't she deserve a little fun for herself? Completely harmless fun. She just wouldn't think about it; that was all. Forcing a smile, Hermione beamed, feeling rather deranged, at herself in the mirror.

After Ron, Hermione had done the classy thing and given up on shaving her legs, having decided to show her distaste with the opposite sex by embracing her inner natural woman. For Malfoy--sick thought--that wouldn't do. Being naked in front of him was an unsettling and humiliating thought. Why should he even bother with being nice to her? If anyone was going to notice the bit of post-war weight that had gone right to her stomach, it was going to be Malfoy. Trying to suppress the flutter of nerves in her belly, she stripped down to her knickers, frowning at the mess that was her legs.

Alone in her bathroom, Hermione took stock of the situation, and decided she'd gone mad. By the time she was done with her legs, she'd done the smart thing: she'd talked herself back to reason, and entirely out of this insane idea born of her once enemy. Shag him, indeed.

Unfortunately, Malfoy never listened to her, and the bathroom door banged open. He had a foreign look on his face, and her stomach flip-flopped traitorously. She opened her mouth to tell him to leave, but he spoke first.

"Bugger that," he said, gesturing at her legs. "I don't give a fuck."

Leave, she thought, but he was in front of her in an instant, lifting her up and depositing her with surprising gentleness onto the bathroom counter. She watched with dispassionate desire as he undid his pants, turning to her and moving between her legs. With a wave of his wand, her knickers were gone, leaving her entirely bare before him. She felt her cheeks flush, but she couldn’t stop staring at him as he took her in, at the heady light in his eyes, and at the set of his mouth.

This was wrong, of course, but it did indeed take the cake. Years of animosity rushed over her, and it was strange because it made her want this again, for reasons she didn't want to dwell on. But then, she didn't want to dwell on anything outside of the silver glint darkening his eyes. If the Muggles girls could do it, why couldn't she?

"You can tell me no," he murmured, a slight catch in his voice. A funny thing passed through his gaze, simultaneously lighting a fire in her stomach and making up her mind.

As he made his way through a contraceptive spell, Hermione thought of Ron. She thought of how disappointed he would be with her, how disgusted. She thought of how he was always careful and nice, considerate in and out of the bedroom. He would never have contemplated doing it with her in the bathroom with the lights on, when the countertop bit at her thighs and the mirror was cold against her back. She wasn't comfortable, and that never would have flied with Ron. For Merlin's sake, she still had a bit of soap down by her ankle.

But Malfoy wasn't Ron, and if he thought about it at all it didn't seem to matter. A moment passed, and then he was pressing against her, breath hot and choppy against her cheek. Hermione told him nothing, but her hands found his back, and she pressed her nails as hard as she could into his shirt. Ready and waiting, or whatever.

"See, Hermione," he said, "this is _life_."

Thinking that was rather melodramatic, she noticed her first name with a start, but then Malfoy moved and it was too late to think anything. Opening her legs further, she gripped his back with one hand and the counter with the other. He was more into this than she was, that much was obvious, and she realized for the first time that she hadn't questioned _his_ motives--she wasn't a random Muggle girl, and this wasn't his normal M.O. They were tangled up with history. How strange--

"Stop thinking," he ordered, grabbing a hold of her chin and making her look at him.

And look she did, for a full ten seconds of awkwardly intense eye contact before Malfoy leaned in and found her mouth with his. She let him kiss her, feeling rather clinical, and she let him undo her shirt and banish her bra to some forgotten corner of the bathroom. When he touched her breasts, it wasn’t awful; there was something intriguing about the look on his face as he gazed at her.

All that aside, however, and all the reasons that were so clearly doing it for Malfoy were absolutely not doing it for her. She felt guilty and uncertain, both things she never liked to feel; nothing could make her forget who she was, and who he was. Truthfully, she didn’t know why she’d gone along with it in the first place, but it was a little late to worry much about that.

Honestly, she wished her brain would just sod off, because Malfoy was rather easy on the eyes, and he wasn’t terrible at this either. There was something quite nice about how much he seemed to want _her_ \--and where had that come from?

“I’ve wanted to fuck you for years,” he grunted, too in-tune with her thoughts.

 _Well, I haven’t_ , she thought. But if it was true and he _had_ , wasn’t it her duty to at least attempt to be good at all of this? It couldn’t be very appealing to shag someone who was staring at you with confusion and distaste, now could it? She yanked on his shoulders until he leaned forward, pleased when she couldn’t see his strange eyes, and buried her face in his neck, hiding her nerves behind wet kisses. Dragging her hands down his back, she dug her fingers into his bum and moaned herself, rather caught up in her own little show.

“Yes, Malfoy,” she murmured, thinking she was about the sexiest thing ever. “Show me how you wanted to do it.”

“Naughty little minx,” he replied, and the low tenor of his voice was enough to show her it was working.

Closing her eyes, she squeezed his hips with her thighs and let herself be carried away on a wave of dislike and his lust for her. It didn’t take long—things had always been too much with them—for her breathing to pick up in earnest, for her hands on his bum to become more than a show. When his thrusts became erratic and graceless, she was not quite there with him but that was all right. Power rippled over her, intense and intoxicating, as he gave in, as he gave up the control.

This was what it meant to be a woman, she decided, high on her own allure. When he leaned forward, resting his forehead on her breasts, she was smiling over his shoulder, cheeks flushed and eyes bright.

**

Afterwards, he stayed. Hermione hadn't been expecting that, and she certainly hadn't been expecting him to strip down without a care in the world and go to her bed as if he belonged there. Put out, annoyed with herself, and embarrassed, she searched for her pyjamas, trying to ignore his smug laughter.

Merlin, she didn't like him. She couldn't believe, not for one minute, that she'd shagged him in her bathroom not half an hour ago. Harry and Ron would die, Harry and Ron would kill her. Across the room, even Crookshanks looked accusing. Guilt rippled through her, and she felt rather sick.

"Don't be so embarrassed," he ordered, sounding languid and amused. Sounding _satisfied_. Merlin. Hermione bit back a rather hysterical urge to giggle. "A little late for it, don't you think?"

Hermione didn't think that, actually. Settling on her bra and knickers, she climbed in beside him, trying not to touch him. Her space felt invaded, and she did so hate to sleep with a bra on. Attempting not to be obvious, she wiggled around, trying in vain to dislodge the under wire from her left breast.

"Do you spend the night with all your Muggle girls?" she snapped, closing her eyes so as not to see him. Still, she could hear him breathing and she could see his smug half-smile in her mind.

"No," he replied, simple as that.

"I will kill you if you breathe a word of this to anyone," she promised, meaning it.

He chuckled and said, "Naturally" before rolling on top of her. Hermione struggled for a moment, all for show, before giving in. After all, what was a second time when the first had already been so taboo, so forbidden? At least if she was busy, she wouldn't have to think about it.

“I’m not going to let you not enjoy it this time,” he vowed. "You're a really shitty actress."

This time, he was gentle and slow, and she knew without asking that that was as strange as spending the night.

"Taking the cake," she snorted, giggling nervously as his lips traced a secret trail up her inner thigh. "Honestly, I'm never letting you take the cake again."

"Best enjoy it while I can then, eh," he returned, his breath tickling her in all the right places.

"Oh, stop talking," she insisted, biting her lip on a sigh. "I've never been able to stand you when you talk."

For once in their lives, Malfoy actually, and without comment, obliged. She closed her eyes against his wicked smile, gripped her sheets, and obliged as well—she stopped thinking, and gave into the feel of his sinful mouth in places it should never have been.

**

He was gone when she awoke, slipping out quietly sometime before dawn. He'd even smoothed out the blankets on his side of the bed. Blinking, Hermione ran her hand over her face, regret coursing over her. She was sore and too tired, and this was just all so uncharacteristic and awful.

She made it all the way to the bathroom before Astoria crossed her mind; immediately, she felt sick. What had she done? In the mirror, her cheeks pinked unnaturally, and the world tilted on its axis. She was Hermione Granger, and she was good and moral. It didn't matter if Malfoy carried on as if he was single, the truth of the matter was that he wasn't, strange marriage arrangements be damned, and she had just... she had just...

He had called her _Mudblood_ in school. Ages ago, yes, but once he'd hated her, and not only had she kissed him, she'd--

A delicate shudder rippled over her, followed by a rush of absolute self-loathing. She still wasn't even sure why she'd done it, why she'd wanted to experience something so pointless. Friday nights had gotten entirely out of control. It didn’t matter who shared her secret. Nothing mattered outside of the depraved thing she’d done.

Trying not to cry, Hermione turned on her shower. She wished she could tell someone, wanted to Floo Ginny, but the absolute truth of the matter was that this could never be spoken of. She knew--absolutely knew without really knowing why--that Malfoy was going to keep his mouth shut, and the most brutal torture would never open hers.

Merlin, she hoped he'd been telling the truth about being careful; hoped too that he was good at contraceptive charms. Why hadn't she cast it herself? Sticking out her stomach, she thought about bearing his love child and almost threw up.

Friday nights were a mistake, and that was as simple as that. It was time to stop watching Muggles, time to stop sharing some dingy pub with him. The war was over and she wasn't a Muggle. She was Hermione Granger, witch extraordinaire, and it was time she remembered that.

**

Monday morning, Hermione stormed into Malfoy's office without knocking. He looked up, surprised, before a strange smile she couldn't decipher appeared on his face.

"I am never doing that again," she blurted, before he had time to speak.

He raised an eyebrow before gesturing rather placidly at the door. "Morning, Granger. You might have knocked."

"The other night was a mistake," she reiterated, crossing her arms and glaring at him with all the strength she could muster. Accidentally, she pictured him naked, and had to look away with a flush.

His stupid smile didn't even falter. "If you say so."

"I'm not going there anymore," she continued. "Don't bother looking for me."

"As you wish."

Something about his tone bothered her, but Hermione couldn't say what it was. Nerves feeling rather frazzled, she started to do a very non-Gryffindor thing--she started to flee. Only she wasn't finished, and she was determined to see this through.

Tipping her chin and fighting for pride, she forced herself to say, "Really, you _are_ careful?"

Malfoy's eye twitched, but then his expression returned to that irritating docile calm. "For God's sake, Granger, I haven't slept with that many girls. And _yes_. Muggles have this thing. A... a..." He made a lewd gesture with his hand.

"Condom," she sniffed prudishly.

"Yes that. Bloody inconvenience."

"Yes. No." Whatever. Shaking her head, she turned her back on him, only to pause again by the door. Lowering her voice and not looking back, she murmured, "Don't you think you could ever love Astoria?"

"No." His tone brooked no argument. "She's with Zabini, if that makes you feel less guilty."

Hermione didn't know why Malfoy would care about the existence of any guilt she might be feeling, and she didn't know why he'd confide in her either. Shoulders sagging, she said, "Oh" and slipped from his office.

**

In the spirit of remembering whom she was, Hermione spent Thursday night at the Potters, listening to Harry yell about Quidditch from the other room while James squirmed in her arms and made all sorts of baby noises.

"See how he loves his auntie Hermione," Ginny was saying, making them tea in the kitchen. "You're going to be his absolute favourite."

Hermione forced a smile and hoped it didn't look like a grimace. It wasn't that she didn't like babies exactly, and it certainly wasn't that she was afraid of them because she wasn't afraid of anything. She preferred children, that much was true, but James was sweet, in a way. She rubbed one chubby cheek with her finger, tracing the lines of his mouth until she chased a smile out of him. That was satisfying. She could do this.

"He's lovely," she agreed, hoping he wasn't going to spit up on her robes. She shouldn't have come straight from work; she should have changed.

Ginny's smile was full of blind adoration when she passed Hermione her tea. Seeing an out, Hermione exchanged the baby for her cup, finding she liked him more in Ginny's arms. Reaching across the table, she rubbed at the fine red hair on top of his head, which made his face screw up. Alarmed, she pulled her hand back.

"He can almost hold his head up," Ginny announced, sounding for all the world as proud as if he'd done something like make Head Boy.

"Well, he is Harry Potter's son," Hermione said quite evenly. "And yours."

"That he is," Ginny agreed, bouncing him a little. Then, with a sort of sheepish smile, she added, "I'm boring you. How's life? I don't do anything other than change diapers. Tell me stories, Hermione! I need to live vicariously."

 _I secretly go to this Muggle pub and, funny thing, I slept with Draco Malfoy._ "Work's been busy lately. Not much to tell you!" Her laugh sounded nervous. "Sorry to be boring."

Ginny waved a hand, and leaned in closer. "I've something to tell you." She lowered her voice, although in the other room, Harry sounded distracted. "Ron asked about you the other day."

Hermione's heart leapt to her throat. She'd known he would, known they'd probably end up together, known someday that she'd probably hold a red headed baby while gushing about how he slept through the night and was such a good child.

She couldn't explain why the next thing she felt was a cloying sense of being smothered, of having a pre-determined path. She wanted to dig in her heels without knowing why; it wasn't as though she had anything or wanted anything else.

"Ginny," she started.

But Ginny looked away, smile hard and determined. "You'll forgive him eventually, Hermione, and he'll come round. Why make him suffer?"

Staring at her tea, Hermione tried hard to find her smile. After all, Ron hadn’t really done anything to forgive. All he’d wanted was what Harry had, a normal happy life, and it was Hermione who was messed up and protesting. Across the table, James made a contented noise; Ginny cooed down at him. Someday, Hermione would be in her shoes and Ron would be yelling about Quidditch.

Deep breaths. She wasn't scared. She wasn't scared of anything.

**

By Friday afternoon, Hermione knew herself to be a liar. Watching the minutes tick by on her desk clock, she told herself resolutely that she wasn’t going to go, that she didn’t need time or anything else for herself. What she should do was Floo Ron, and beg for forgiveness. She should promise to be a sweet biddable wife, and just marry him already. Merlin, even Malfoy was getting married. If it felt _wrong_ with Ron, it probably wouldn’t feel wrong forever. These were just nerves and—

A knock on her open office door made her glance up; there _he_ was, lounging in the entrance way with a cool smile on his face.

And Hermione knew-- _knew_ \--that she wouldn’t be Flooing Ron tonight.

“See what I just did there?” asked Malfoy, gesturing at the door. “I knocked before entering. Pretty simple stuff, yeah?”

Frowning, she folded her hands on top of her paperwork and tried to look like she was going to protest whatever came out of his mouth next. “What do you want, Malfoy?”

“Other than you right now on top of that desk?”

Hermione hadn’t been expecting that. Blanching, she tried to see over his shoulder, hoping no one had overheard him, hoping that no one was about to start spreading rumours.

He laughed, surprisingly hearty. “Oh, relax! I’m _kidding_. You said you don’t want to do that again, and I think you’re mad, but I’m hardly going to force you, now am I?”

“I wouldn’t put it past you,” she sniffed.

With a roll of his eyes, he continued with, “Just thought I’d swing by and see if you really were going to give tonight up. You know I’m going and I suspect you are too, and now it seems ridiculous to pretend we’re not both there. How about I pop by your place around nine?”

That sounded surprisingly date-like, but he was right about everything else. Feeling like she was about to make a huge mistake, Hermione sighed and said, “I’ll meet you at the pub at nine thirty.”

“The doors?”

“Works for me. Don’t be late.”

**

Eight o’clock found Hermione browsing through the _Prophet_ in a knee length skirt, practical flats, and the frumpiest sweater she owned, nary a trace of make-up on her face. Her hair was frizzled just so, and the frown on her face was as McGonagall-esque as she could make it. She felt unappealing and perfect.

Nine fifteen found Hermione in a bit of a panic, trying to squeeze into black trousers the war had rendered two sizes too small while simultaneously attempting to charm the wrinkles out of a short sleeved blouse, tight across the breasts and wonderfully loose in the waist, which hung outside of her closet. Her hair was a bit of a lost cause, but that didn’t mean the rest of her had to be. She was not trying to look good for Draco Malfoy; she was trying to look good for Muggle London.

“Bugger,” she swore, trying to find her other boot, hopping around on a precarious heel, and cursing her vain little self. On the way out the door, she even stopped for lipstick.

She arrived without noise in the alley at nine twenty eight, pocketed her wand, and marched, chin up, the rest of the way to the pub.

Malfoy, the prat, was already there. He gave her an appraising look, one eyebrow raised, and when he spoke, his tone contradicted the alarming thing she’d seen pass through his eyes.

“You look lovely,” was what he said, and if it sounded dismissive, Hermione suspected with a touch of panic that his tone was a lie.

“You look exactly the same,” she replied, wishing he’d gained two trouser sizes too. She took in his outfit, which consisted of a black sweater, and black trousers. The effect, combined with that unusually light hair, was striking, not that she’d admit it aloud.

She thought that she didn’t have to say it aloud; Malfoy’s smile, weird and genuine, looked all-knowing. Shaking his head, he held the door for her and in they went.

**

As the night progressed, Hermione found two things equally alarming. Firstly, it was very different being here without her concealment charm, truly being one of them. Secondly, Malfoy, outside of the expectations of the Wizarding world, was distressingly easy to talk to, being both clever and disturbingly insightful, at times.

“And so then Harry and Ginny had James, and that’s that,” Hermione finished, wrapping up What Harry Has Been Up to Since the War with a sheepish smile. Malfoy, of course, had to know all of this; everyone knew all of this, unless they were living under a rock.

“Fascinating,” drawled Malfoy, taking a sip of his drink.

Hermione sloshed hers in her glass as she was wont to do when nervous and fidgety, smiled, and said, “Not really.” Changing the subject, she asked, “And what of Pansy? If you don’t mind me saying so, I rather thought you’d end up with her.”

“Yes, well, after the Dumbledore fiasco, she was rather less than interested,” he informed her, keeping his voice level.

Hermione stilled her hands on her glass, and looked down. It was impossible to forget that they’d started on very different sides, no matter how many years had passed. She reminded herself with some difficultly that she didn’t hate him, not anymore, that she could maybe even see how he’d ended up where he had, that she acknowledged what he’d said last week as truth.

“Because you didn’t kill him or because you considered killing him?” she asked, lowering her voice.

Malfoy gave her a sardonic look. “Which do you think, Granger?”

“But Astoria doesn’t care?” she pressed.

“Astoria cares for very little outside of my money and my family’s name,” he stated harshly.

“What else is there to care for?” she asked, but she made sure her smile was teasing. She couldn’t say why exactly, but she felt certain that Astoria’s indifference bothered Malfoy very much. Women’s intuition or something, although she thought that was all a load of rubbish. “If it bothers you, why marry her?”

“It doesn’t bother me at all,” he snapped. “I don’t understand your morbid fascination with her.”

“Trust me, there is no morbid fascination. I’m merely interested in what attracts you to a woman who looks just like your mother.”

“Well, I’m merely interested in what happened with you and Weasley. Why don’t we talk about that?”

“Who is morbidly fascinated now?” she snarked.

Malfoy smiled again, and said, “Touché. How about a trade?”

“A trade?” she asked, surprised that she was considering it. “You mean, I’ll tell you why I’m not with Ron and you’ll tell me why you are with Astoria?”

He nodded, and Hermione bit at her lip. Something secret and intimate lurked in his eyes, and she found herself drawn to it like a moth to the flame. She couldn’t believe that she’d slept with him; she absolutely could believe it at the same time. More importantly, she couldn’t believe she was here now, as if they were some sort of friends.

“Ron wants to marry me,” she said, thinking about how lame that sounded. Poor little Hermione with the man who wanted to marry her.

Malfoy made a small noise of understanding, took a deep breath, and said, “I can’t let my parents down again.”

“Expectations,” she breathed.

And this was weird, sitting in the dark sharing secrets with Malfoy. It was stranger than sitting with someone she didn’t like and had slept with anyway. She expected scathing remarks, but wasn’t getting any; she sensed that he’d been expecting them too. Hanging out with him wasn’t awful, horrible truth.

Abruptly, she wondered what it would have been like years ago if so much animosity hadn’t kept them from getting to know one another. Might she have been at his house, watching Quidditch games? Was it possible that they might have even come to be mates? She’d always admired his intelligence, however begrudgingly, and when he wasn’t being too terribly cruel, he showed excellent wit.

But that was then, and this was now. She wasn’t sure what this was; at its most innocent, it was a casual meeting between two people who had gone to school together. A catch-up.

“So are you still fighting for the rights of house elves everywhere, or are you too caught up in healing us veterans?” Malfoy asked, swivelling his straw in his drink and playing the catch-up game quite well.

Hermione, for the life of her, couldn’t decide whether he was mocking her. There was no maliciousness lurking in his gaze; then, there was nothing at all lurking there. He looked uncharacteristically flat.

“It’s hard to champion a cause that not one single person cares about,” she replied cagily.

“But you are Hermione Granger. That is what you _do_ ,” he drawled. “I always thought they were terribly misunderstood creatures.”

“Did you?” As if.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” Malfoy looked away.

Hermione remembered how he’d looked during the war, how his eyes had seemed sunken and stress bright, how thin he’d been; how pale. She also remembered how he’d looked last Friday, cheeks flushed and skin warm. _Hermione_ , he’d called her, and her stomach tightened again at the memory. He was such a strange man, so broken and so not. And Hermione knew too that she would do it again if not for the multitudes of reasons _not_ to because there was an appeal there. It was a sick appeal, that was true, but it was an appeal all the same.

Resolutely, she vowed to never think of it again.

“It’s late,” she announced, managing to sound just the right amount of regretful. “I’m off, but feel free to stay. I always did leave before you.”

Only Malfoy just shrugged and turned around to flag their waitress. Trying not to think about it, she let him pay the tab, and then they were outside, meandering the short walk in complete silence.

Outside of her building, an overwhelming sense of awkwardness nearly rendered Hermione speechless. This wasn’t exactly on, and she hated it more than a little.

Clearing her throat, she said, “I’m not inviting you up. I meant what I said about it being a mistake last week.”

Up went a perfectly light eyebrow. “I never expected it.”

That annoyed her, although she couldn’t precisely say why—that annoyed her too. Sticking up her chin, she added, “I’m not sure I had fun.” No sense lying, not to him, not when he deserved the harshest of her truths for all the years she’d received the harshest of his.

Malfoy’s smile was cool. “Nor I,” he clarified.

Right. Nodding, she turned her back on him and dug her keys from her purse, where they’d naturally sunk to the bottom and had snagged on her wallet. Hermione heard more than saw the rush of movement, and then Malfoy’s hand was closing around her wrist, stilling her departure.

Hermione’s stomach bottomed out.

Then he was too close, much too close, as an eerie desperation lit his eyes. She found herself looking at his mouth; knew, as heat churned her belly, that all she had to do was tilt herself upwards, knew he’d kiss her back, and knew what would happen next.

“Next Friday then?” he asked, breath warming her cheeks.

Hermione, still watching his lips, was momentarily flustered. Then, surprised by the conviction in her voice, she said, “Yes.”

Malfoy smiled that guileless smile she couldn’t read before lifting his other hand to touch her cheek. She froze and bit at her own lip, desperate to forget the feel of his. Lazily, his fingers wandered into her hairline.

 _This is fucked up_ , she wanted to say, but Malfoy spoke first, and all he said was, “Good.” Then he dropped her wrist and stole his fingers back. Abruptly, he was gone without a sound. Hugging herself, Hermione opened the door and went inside, feeling more alone and confused than she had in an age.

**

For Hermione, it was a week of obsession.

Monday was wasted. In between doing actual work, Hermione worked out exactly how she had gotten where she was, distracted at all points by the memory of his hands on her hips, fingers strong against her bones, and his wicked mouth on hers, hot and needy.

Tuesday was a day for shame. Astoria Greengrass, philanthropist in the making, smiled up at her from the paper, and it was hard to hold her coffee down.

Wednesday, she almost confessed the whole thing to Ginny.

Thursday, she had it mostly figured out. Conversation with Malfoy had been natural, and she knew it was only shared secrets and a shared feeling of being stuck that did it for them. She knew she’d never be able to speak to him as easily in the Wizarding world, and that was all fine and dandy.

Friday went by in a blur, and then she was outside the pub, taking him in as he waited for her—early again. If all they had was secrets, it was still something—no one would have understood her need to be here, and, while it was sickening that Malfoy did, such was life.

This wasn’t an _affair_ \--nothing sexual was going to happen again. This was a burgeoning friendship, and it beat sitting by herself in dark corners.

“Age before beauty,” he said, opening the door with his trademark smirk.

Hermione Granger, the fool, went inside.  



	2. Friday Night Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the war, Hermione and Draco meet at a Muggle pub, and it’s the start of something unexpected for both. Then, what good are expectations anyway? DHr.

Title: Friday Night Secrets  
Author: Edie  
Rating: R  
Disclaimer: Not mine!  
Word Count: 21,000-ish. Has to be split into ~~two~~ three parts. How annoying.  
Warnings: This is my way _out_ of the epilogue, so it does include Draco/Astoria and past Ron/Hermione, although it all ends up the way it should. Ahem. Language, sexual content, etc. Spoilers for _Braveheart_ in one scene.  
Dedication: [](http://bunney.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://bunney.livejournal.com/)**bunney** , this is for you! I hope it can provide a moment’s distraction. *smooches*  
Summary: After the war, Hermione and Draco meet at a Muggle pub, and it’s the start of something unexpected for both. Then, what good are expectations anyway? DHr.

  
**Part Two**

There were topics that were safe. These included work in general, life in general, and the pub in general. Polite inquires about the upkeep of the Manor and her flat were allowed. Sometimes, she let him talk about Quidditch.

Most topics were not safe. These included their friends, their significant others, their personal lives, and their experiences in the war. Once, she’d made the mistake of asking about his father and his views on this new world; once he’d made the mistake of hinting that the Muggles, without magic, could never truly be his equal. Both times had ended up with one party storming out—Hermione had even skipped a Friday to prove her point.

They never spoke of Astoria, and they never spoke of Ron. They never spoke of a night together that had begun to fade with the passing of time but could still be called to mind easily enough. He never touched her again, not even casually. She made an effort to stop staring at his mouth.

Weeks passed. It was an odd friendship, one neither party acknowledged on a daily public basis, but it was a friendship all the same. It was a kinship born of secrets and mutual understanding.

Hermione stopped pretending to give up Fridays. Malfoy stopped trying to shag Muggles.

And it worked, for all that it was wrong.

**

“That bloke over there, you could get him.”

Hermione looked despite herself, although Malfoy’s game of Find Hermione a Man was rarely amusing, and was mostly insulting. This was no exception—the man he had gestured at was a good bit shorter than she was, and very much in his cups. He was also approaching her father’s age.

“Thanks, Malfoy, but I don’t have daddy issues,” she said primly, thinking _I’ll leave those all to you._

His lip twitched, like he’d heard her inner jab, but he persisted. “Oh, don’t be such a stick in the mud, Granger. He’s glanced over here nearly a dozen times.”

“Maybe he’s checking you out. Maybe he’s been blinded by the beacon of light that is your ridiculous hair. Maybe he wants to get his hands all over—”

“Speaking from experience, Granger?”

Hermione shook her head, listening to Malfoy’s smarmy chuckle. She made sure to send Malfoy’s pick a withering look, but he only smiled at her before answering his cell phone. Probably his wife, Hermione figured, looking to see where he was, and who he was with, and—

“Bollocks, he’s clearly off his bird,” Malfoy announced, sounding genuinely disappointed. “I met a Muggle once who talked into one of those black things for almost an hour. You should have heard her, Granger. Might change your mind about some things, the way she raved on into that thing.”

“Change my mind about what?” she asked, irritated. And then, “Black thing? Crazy? What are you on about now?”

“That… box they talk into. She thought there was someone there!” He laughed at how ridiculous that was.

Hermione laughed at him. “You idiot, there is someone there! That’s a cell phone.”

“Cell phone,” he said, slowly testing it out.

“Yes, a cellular telephone. You do know what a telephone is?” Off his blank look, she sighed and continued. “It’s like when you Floo someone, but for Muggles. A Muggle can punch numbers into her cell phone or her regular phone and it connects her to another Muggle, who will also talk into one. So you see there is someone there.”

“How does it connect them?” asked Malfoy, shooting her a sceptical look.

Strictly speaking, Hermione didn’t know. Vaguely waving her hand, she said, “It sends signals over wires, and to towers.”

Malfoy’s eyebrow went up and he snorted. Rolling her eyes, she extracted her own phone from her purse and held it out to him. Clearly fearing it might bite, he took it, turning it over in his hands.

“I use it to phone my parents,” she said, feeling rather defensive out of nowhere. “It’s too late tonight, but sometime you can use it to see that it works, if you like.”

“Oh yes,” he said, chuckling, “I will use this telephone to connect myself to my friends through wires and towers. I will send them signals.”

His disbelieving laughter got on Hermione’s nerves. “This is just the problem with you lot,” she said, indignantly snatching her phone back. “You’ve no base understanding of Muggle culture. Muggle Studies was a joke of a class, and then you get wizards who find all of this worthy of ridicule, when really society here is quite complex. The problems in our world are just going to be repeated time and again because all of you don’t care to learn.”

“I’m not clueless. I can use Muggle money.”

“You and Muggle four year olds around the world,” she snorted, before dropping some of that Muggle money down on the table. An idea had taken root in her head, and she couldn’t stop liking it, in spite of herself. “Come on. I want to go somewhere else.”

**

She took him to an all night pharmacy across the street, leading him up and down the rows and explaining each and every product he seemed sceptical about (which, truthfully, was almost all of them). At first, he mocked the things he didn’t understand, which had been expected, but by the fourth aisle, he listened with a quiet patience, if not a real interest. Perhaps he’d learned that mockery brought about longer explanations, or perhaps he was somewhat curious; she couldn’t tell, and she didn’t care.

Thankfully, at this hour, the pharmacy was all but deserted. She couldn’t imagine the response they’d get, with her leading a grown man about, describing the most basic of Muggle inventions. At first, she was defensive and on edge, but as Malfoy’s silence proved he might actually have been _listening_ , she loosened up and spoke more freely.

“Think of this as the most amazing field trip ever,” she said, in between describing the purposes of a blow dryer and a flat iron.

In the end, he even let her bully him into purchasing a pack of gum, a Muggle chocolate bar, a bottle of Advil, and a blue toothbrush. The plastic shopping bag looked ridiculous in his hand, but he swung it gamely to and fro as they went back into the night.

**

Two months in, it stopped working altogether.

At nine fifteen, just as Hermione was starting to hate herself more than a little for bemoaning her lack of a truly excellent push-up bra, the buzzer to her building rang. She froze, one hand buried in her knickers drawer, and tried not to panic.

It couldn’t be a friend. They’d all learned to leave her alone on Friday, writing it off as a strange Hermione quirk. And if it was a friend, what could she say? Stealing a panicked look at the mirror, she knew there was no way to explain why she’d slutted herself up—if slutting herself up was really the appropriate term for jeans and a slightly low cut blouse still folded neatly on her bed. She did have more make-up on than usual, and that was unlike her. More to the point, she also only had on her jeans and that blasted eat-your-breasts rather than shove-them-to-your-nose bra on. All in all, she figured she looked like a normal twenty something year old girl, rather than the staid proper Hermione Granger everyone was used to.

The buzzer again. Shit.

Yanking her hand from her drawer as though it had been burned, Hermione grabbed a sweater and headed for the door. She’d lie, was what she’d do, or—

“It’s Malfoy,” crackled the voice over the intercom.

Or.

“What do you want?” she barked back, thinking that she should have gone for the blouse and not the sweater. “I’ll meet you in fifteen. Usual spot.” She released her finger.

“No, what I obviously want is in,” he replied dryly, voice breaking over the rather dodgy system her flat was equipped with. “Do you have any idea how long it took me to figure out how to work this blasted thing? Let me up, woman.”

“What if I don’t?” she asked, leaning against the wall.

“I’ll find a way anyway,” came his cheerful reply. “Magical or not.”

Rolling her eyes, she hit the appropriate button. There was no way out of it, not really. Knowing Malfoy, he’d just stand out there and holler, or trick some poor unsuspecting occupant to let him up. Best to preserve the peace of her building, and all that.

He knocked on her door before she had time to change her sweater. When she opened it, it was to find him dressed more casually than she was used to, armed with take-away bags that smelled alarmingly good. She sniffed the air despite herself.

“Want to skip the pub tonight?” he asked, moving past her as if he was welcome. “We’re becoming regulars and that’s not good for my mysterious reputation.”

“More like you’ve shagged half the bar,” she snarked, crossing her arms.

“More like.” His gaze travelled over her leisurely, and she tried not to meet it. “Lovely sweater. Weasley special?”

It was, as a matter of fact, but that was besides the point. Snatching the bags from his hands, she made a bee-line for the kitchen, leaving him to follow. Inside the bags, she found Chinese food; by the time she’d gotten plates, her mouth was watering.

“Thank you for inquiring in advance about whether I felt like switching routines,” she said, shoving an empty plate at him.

“Oh, did you spend too much time getting ready? I assure you the effort’s not lost on me.”

She left him in the kitchen, retreating on a huff to her living room. It was too much to hope for that he’d chose the loveseat. Predictably, he reclined right next to her, even though she’d chosen a corner seat. Setting about ignoring him, she flicked on the television.

“Oh, a Muggle television!” he exclaimed drolly. “How fascinating.”

She rolled her eyes at that, sneaking surreptitious glances at him as she picked at her food. He chewed with his mouth shut, which was nice, and even casually dressed he still didn’t look conventional. He looked like himself played down and it wasn’t a bad look.

It had been two months and Hermione had almost stopped thinking it. Now, however, she was insanely aware of the bathroom down the hall and her bedroom, next to it. She could feel the heat emanating from his body, too close to her own, so close that their thighs were almost touching.

It was chummy, that was all. Harry sat this close to her all the time. It was nothing to write home about.

An insane vision of climbing onto his lap flashed through her mind. Hermione blinked, alarmed with herself. There was only one way to break herself out of this mood, and it was his fault for changing the order of things; his fault for not keeping to things that were safe.

“Did it hurt?” she asked rather waspishly.

Eyeing her curiously, he swallowed before asking, “Did what hurt?”

It could have gone two ways here. Hermione could have said _when you fell from Heaven_ because that was corny and Malfoy, she had discovered, liked corny humour. Or, she could have kept on keeping on, which was precisely what she did.

“ _That_.” Pointedly, she looked at his arm.

He flinched to her surprise before scowling at her. She wanted to say that they were wizards when they weren’t at a Muggle pub, she wanted to say that she couldn’t like him here where it was private, and she wanted to say something about lines and crossing them.

“Not at all. It was all fluffy bunnies and butterflies.” Leaning forward, he put down his plate so as not to be distracted from glaring at her. Defensively she tipped up her chin. “Of course it fucking hurt, Granger. What did you expect?”

“Were you happy with your defection at the very end?” she persisted stubbornly. These were questions that kept her awake at night.

He had the gall to look affronted but said, “Yes, I’ve never liked a suicide mission” very steadily.

She was afraid of taking it too far but recklessness drove her forward. “Can I see it?”

It was more of an order than a request but he complied, huffing loudly. Thrusting up his sleeve, he shoved his arm in her direction, turned so she could see the Mark, faded but still prevalent enough to see easily. Something old and painful tightened in her belly. When she touched her fingers to it, it was more about squelching that fear than it was about accepting all sides of him.

After a moment, she adjusted his sleeve for him and said, “I’m sorry for asking.”

“You’re not.” His voice was hard now and she knew without looking that his eyes were too. “And what about you, Granger? Do you want to tell me how a Cruciatus feels? Shall we relive that?”  
  
The question caught her off guard, but it shouldn’t have. Biting her lip to keep herself quiet, Hermione remembered being watched by him that night, remembered being completely helpless. She understood it, why he’d not helped, but it wasn’t something she spoke of ever. She hadn’t even told Ron of that indescribable pain, and she rarely thought of it herself outside of Muggle pubs, where she thought of it constantly.

Quietly, she said, “Are you going to tell me you’ve never felt one?”

The length of the ensuing pause let her know that Malfoy too had been caught off guard. The moment stretched and yawned; Hermione fought to not feel uncomfortable. And then he was turning, looking at her.

“I’m sorry,” he said, simple as that.

Only Hermione had not wanted an apology, not exactly. Smiling at him tentatively, she replied, “It hurt like a bitch.”

“Yeah,” he nodded, looking away. “Yeah, it really does.”

Popping to her feet abruptly, she all but chirped, “More spring rolls?”

And Malfoy too seemed willing to let it go. “Excellent, aren’t they? I bring amazing food. Say it.”

“Never,” she said instead, skirting back to the kitchen. Pausing by the entrance, she cooed, “You probably poisoned it.”

He saluted her with the spring roll he still had, smiling. “You can count on it.”

**

The third anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts came and went. Hermione went to the Weasleys’ as always, ignoring the fact that Ron and she were still on edge and trying not to stare at the permanently empty seat beside George.

Things went as normal. James cried and was escorted off with Molly; the rest of them saw to getting smashed. Harry took turns talking too much and not talking at all, Ron was steady and quiet. The fifth time Hermione caught him thinking of Fred, she took his hand and knew without being told that it didn’t have to mean anything. Here, when they were commemorating, they could be as they were, years ago.

Three years and things were the same. Three years and things were very different.

**

She told him about the Cruciatus Curse in excruciating detail outside of their pub. It was somewhat of a rash decision, spurred on by a little too much vodka and a surprising anger at the Muggles who didn’t know around them. Down the alley at her Disapparation point, she described what it felt like to know that your innards were about to be ripped through your belly button, that your skull was going to crush your brain. She talked and talked until her words became sobs, until she was sloppy with alcohol and years of repressed memories. She told it all to Malfoy because she could, because he was not Ron, because he was not Harry, and because he’d been there. She talked almost to the point of making herself sick, but then his hands were on her arm and they were gone from the alley on the silence of his magic.

She let him put her up in her bed, appreciative when he turned his face away so that she could shed uncomfortable bar clothes and slip into her favourite flannel pyjamas. She let him pull the covers back and tuck her in like a child, and she let him hold her hand.

There in the dark, Malfoy talked too, once she’d cried herself into silence. He told her about the Mark and his father, about sixth year and Dumbledore. He talked no better nor more fluently than she—for him too these were topics not oft discussed.

When he was done, when she was done, Hermione moved over, letting him onto the bed beside her. He stretched out and opened his arms, and she went to him as if it was the most natural thing in the world, only to find that she wasn’t done crying. And this, this strange togetherness in the dark, meant no more than holding Ron’s hand at anniversaries. This was friendship, pure and wonderful.

It was the end of May. In two months time, he would be married, and she would go back to being alone.

**

The man spoke. “The prisoner wishes to say a word.”

Shifting her weight so that most of her face was hidden by the blanket, Hermione blinked at the television and bit at her lip. This was one of her favourite movies, and she’d seen it countless times; still, she knew what was coming, and she knew she was going to cry.

Down the couch, Malfoy shifted his weight too. At first, he’d been beyond irritating to watch television with—everything, from whether there were people in her TV, to whether Muggles outside London still lived in such “primitive hovels”, to the actual history of William Wallace, had been up for questioning. He’d quieted some at Murron’s death, right around the time Hermione had realized it would be easier to hide potential tears if she were to huddle on her side on her part of the couch. She hadn’t really noticed when her legs had ended up sprawled across his lap, his hand draped loosely over them. Now, it didn’t matter.

Hermione spotted Murron then, and knew the time for crying was upon her. She didn’t consider herself romantic, not in the least, but every time she saw William Wallace see his dead wife, the woman for whom he’d started this all, weave her way through the crowd to comfort him in his final moments was simply too much. Shoving her face into her cushion, she watched with one eye as his grand shout withered, as death approached him.

“Pfft, freedom,” snorted Malfoy, even though his hand had tightened its grip on her shin. She looked away from the screen long enough to see Malfoy, the boy who couldn’t kill Dumbledore, avert his gaze as the axe’s blade fell.

Afterwards, they sat in silence, Hermione too aware of his hand on her leg. She wanted to ask him what he thought of the movie; what he thought of Muggle history, for all that _Braveheart_ could be called history, but he had a strange look on his face, far away and distant.

Finally, he reached up to swat her bum, giving her a cheeky smile. “I’m pretty wealthy, wouldn’t you agree?”

Alarm bells rang in Hermione’s head, but she offered him a cautious, “That generally does seem to be common knowledge.”

“And I’m from an old family.” He narrowed his eyes, considering. “Some might argue that would make me the equivalent of a Muggle lord.”

“Well, Malfoy, I really don’t think—”

“Silence, woman. Do not speak against your betters.” His smile was kind, teasing. All in all, it was a strange look for him. Leaning in, he added on a wicked whisper, “What’s all this about the right of first night?”

“Jesus, Malfoy, _that’s_ what you got out of this movie?” Snorting, she made a big to-do of climbing off the couch, pressing her heel close to what she was suspected was Malfoy’s favourite appendage. He grunted and assisted by giving her a hearty shove. Standing, she stared him down.

He was still smiling. “Are your eyes _red_?”

“William Wallace was an exceptional man,” she sniffed.

“Yes, I dare say I’m half in love with him myself.” He laughed at his own joke, which was good, as she didn’t. “Tell me, where did he get you? It was all that rot at the beginning, wasn’t it? All that crooning around in different languages?”

“Sod off,” she said, and turned to head to the bathroom.

She was almost out of the room when he said with a certain flair, “Granger, je désire le droit de seigneur.” Damn the supposed lord’s right straight to hell.

Pausing, Hermione looked over her shoulder at him, lounging idly on her couch. His smile was easy and relaxed, about as far from Malfoy’s normal expression as one could get. Her chest tightened but she ignored it, thinking for the first time how some women, the kind with daddy issues and self esteem problems, might find him charming; might find him likeable.

Good thing her dad had given her lots of hugs, and that being one of the Golden Three was good on the ego.

She smiled back at him, matching his in tone. “Oh Malfoy,” she cooed, all but batting her eyelashes. “Je désire votre tête sur un plaque.”

“My head on a platter,” he said, barking out a laugh. “I say, Granger, I do believe I’m growing on you.”

“Plate,” she said, moving out of the living room as though the sound of his laughter was hellhounds nipping at her heels. “I do believe I said plate.”

**

On a warm early Sunday in June, Ginny brought James over, and Hermione went with them to the park. Ginny was eager to show James’ new trick, which amounted to a few clumsy steps that even Hermione found heart-warming.

“We’re going to try again,” Ginny announced, after leading James in a circle, his chubby baby hands clenching hers. “I think it’s time.”

Hermione smiled, genuinely pleased, and held out James’ cup filled with juice to him; hydration was important to walking.

“Looking for a girl this time?” she asked, laughing. “Harry probably wants at least ten more sons.”

“I’m a Weasley,” reminded Ginny, slapping her hips. “I come from good breeding stock!”

James hurled forward, colliding into Hermione, who gave him a warm hug before setting him to rights. Done with walking, he went back to his mother on all fours, gurgling out baby nonsense.

_Naturally, she’ll be free to do as she pleases with whom she pleases once we have a son._

Malfoy’s words, spoken so bitingly so many months ago, cut abruptly through Hermione’s mind, forming seemingly from nowhere. Picturing a blond baby with light eyes made her stomach clench unpleasantly at the wrongness of it; she looked away from James on a sigh.

Her sigh caught Ginny’s attention, but her friend was still smiling. “What’s going on with you, Hermione? You seem different lately.”

“What?” Her laugh sounded nervous.

“Happy,” clarified Ginny, although she didn’t look like it was the word she was going for. “Better. More like the you from… before.”

“Things are going well at work,” said Hermione evasively.

“Things getting straightened out? That’s great!”

But her tone said _room for Ron now_. Hermione held fast to her smile, picturing instead red headed children with curls. That was right, of course it was. Ron was who she was meant for; her friendship with Malfoy had been a surprising… _gift_ , beautiful because it was temporary. She knew where her actual future lay.

On that note, she asked the question Ginny wanted to hear. “How’s Ron lately?”

**

On the second Wednesday in June, Hermione left her office and almost collided head on with a statuesque blonde woman she knew too well from the papers but had never seen up close. Perfectly dressed, Astoria Greengrass was a true vision; Hermione was so busy gawking at her that she nearly missed Draco Malfoy, who was standing behind his fiancée, one hand on the small of her back.

“Granger,” he said, something strange and unidentifiable flashing through his eyes, something she would have placed in the neighbourhood of panic or, at least, discomfort. “Perhaps you remember my fiancée, Astoria Greengrass, from our days at Hogwarts? Astoria, dear, this is Hermione Granger, although I doubt you need an introduction, do you.”

“Pleasure,” bit out Hermione, who was feeling a little ill. The guilt wasn’t as overwhelming as she had first thought it might be—since that first night, everything had been innocent—but the sight of them together was more unsettling than Hermione had bargained for. This Malfoy was the one she knew at work, cold and collected, not the Malfoy who brought her tissues when she was upset, who brought amazing take-away and who only pretended to hate Muggle television. This was Astoria’s Malfoy, worlds away from Hermione’s.

“Draco is showing me around his office,” said Astoria, placing one hand on his arm, no doubt so that Hermione could see the wink of her diamonds.

“Don’t let me keep you then. Lovely to meet you, Astoria. Malfoy.”

With a smile that was too bright, she cut around the pair, making a bee-line down the hall. She felt his gaze on her back, but didn’t turn. Chin held high, she darted around a corner and only then did she stop, the image of his hand on Astoria’s back burned into her memory.

But she knew—she _knew_ \--this was only a friendship, and a short friendship with a definite period. She knew all that, and Hermione Granger wasn’t one to get in over her head.

Not at all.

**

“Were you alright the other day?” Malfoy asked, taking a determined sip of his drink.

They were back at the pub, back in the dingy smoke clogged atmosphere, back with the music that reverberated in her stomach and made the ice cubes in her glass vibrate. They were back with the Muggles, and out of her flat; Hermione didn’t know how to say so, but she blamed Astoria.

As such, she blinked and pretended to be confused. “What are you talking about?”

He looked chagrined; there was no other word for it. Good. Let the bastard choke on that, she thought foolishly. When he spoke again, it was only to spit out, “Astoria” in a tone that suggested he found Hermione’s intelligence lacking. Strange, but he wasn’t holding eye contact.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” she returned, taking a hearty swallow of her own drink. “It only happened with us that once, Malfoy, and I understand perfectly well your _arrangement_ with your fiancée. You’re nothing to me.” Her smile felt blithe, and that was good.

“Do you?” He was looking at his hands. “Because it could be different for us, Granger.”

That got her back up. Placing her drink down hard on the table, she shot out, “Are you suggesting I be your mistress, Malfoy?”

But he was looking away from her, over her shoulder at the other patrons. The set of his mouth was grim, the line of his shoulders slumped. He was on his third drink in that hour, which was unusual for him. Hermione thought of asking him what was wrong, but it felt inappropriate now, somehow. She thought of him relaxed on her couch and had to swallow hard. Funny how things changed with time.

A moment passed, and then he said, “No. Of course not. Never that. Forget I even brought this up.”

He lifted his glass then with a jovial smile, but Hermione sensed it wasn’t over. In fact, inside, she felt the beginnings of her first fight with Malfoy her friend brewing in her belly. Frowning, she lifted her own glass and touched her lips to the rim.

**

Hermione threw herself into work. For a solid week, she buried herself in paperwork and PR messes. She worked through lunch, she stayed late, and she cancelled on a dinner with Ginny and Harry. In the corridor, she didn’t make eye contact with silver-eyed devils. Friday night, she stayed home, tense and stiff on her couch. Her buzzer stayed silent, and no one asked annoying questions about cell phones and Scottish history.

It wasn’t fair. It was childish of her maybe. All she knew was that each time she felt guilty about Malfoy, she pictured Astoria’s insipid smile and felt better—and that was it right there, what was wrong. _Insipid_ was a cruel thought. She didn’t know Astoria, who could have been as smart as she was beautiful—and probably was at the very least cunning, if she’d managed to land herself a Malfoy while still fooling around with Zabini. It all left a bad taste in her mouth, dirty and sordid.

This wasn’t on, not matter what _this_ was. Hermione liked logic and definitions, and her situation seemed to defy both. She truly was in over her head and alone in her decision-making, which was of her own doing. She could have told Ginny from the start; she could have included Ron and Harry on her Friday night gallivanting. She’d made secrets of things that needn’t have been secretive, and now she’d managed to isolate herself quite properly.

Worst still, she couldn’t honestly say whether she wanted out.

**

Draco Malfoy wanted in—to her office, that was. She looked up at his knock, sounding in at ten thirty Monday morning. It could have been work related, so she gestured him in, hiding her gulp behind a professional smile when the door closed behind him with a quiet click.

He wasted no time, which she liked about him. Drawing himself up, he asked, “Where were you Friday?”

Heat stained her cheeks, betraying her lie before it left her lips. “I had a headache. Sorry, did you wait?”

“No, I fucked our waitress. Of course I waited.” Pulling out a chair, he seated himself on the other side of her desk. She watched him wage an internal battle while nerves upset her stomach. The clock ticked. Finally, he spit out, “Are you cross with me?”

 _Yes_. She looked away, cross with herself. It was clear, so clear. She’d shagged a boy she didn’t like and now she had some sort of fake crush on him and had ended up as an accidental friend. Obviously, she was the most stupid sort of girl.

Feeling reproachful, she said, “No” aloud. Then, frustrated, she added, “What do you want with me, Malfoy?”

He considered it. She gave him that. Cocking his head, he replied defensively, “Want with you? I haven’t the foggiest. I rather thought we were having fun. I rather thought we were friends.” A pause, and then an acerbic, “I guess I’m not your kind of friend, eh?”

His stupid question came from nowhere, so Hermione considered nothing. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she snapped.

“No noble goodness to find here, right?” To her surprise, Malfoy seemed genuinely angry. “When’s the last time Potter’s made you look at _his_ Mark? You don’t have to spell it out for me. I get it.”

Pushing back his chair made the legs scream against the floor. He was almost at the door when Hermione rose.

“For Merlin’s sake, Malfoy, you really are an idiot. We’re friends. We’re good. It’s just…” Having never vocalized it before, Hermione trailed off, watching frustration and resignation war in his eyes. It was the resignation that made her want to explain herself, that and a desire to prove that she wasn’t the stupid girl with stupid feelings. Tilting her chin, she made herself say, “It’s just it is hard when I knew that getting to know you was always to be a… a… temporary thing, yeah?”

Malfoy blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

Apparently, she did have to spell it out for him. Colouring, she said, “You’re getting married in a month and a half.”

“So?” Frustration and resignation gave way to anger. “Potter’s married. What’s the difference here? Why does it have to change anything?”

“Because.” Thank God he’d closed the door. Her voice was rising, even as her skills as an orator were falling. “Because it’s just different—”

Whirling around, he demanded, “Why? For Merlin’s sake, spit it out.”

With trepidation, she watched him stalk back to her desk. He hit its surface hard with his palms, crowding down into her space. Natural instinct made her want to move back, but she was a Gryffindor; instead she leaned forward, so close that she could smell the expensive spice of his cologne and something vaguely like mint on his breath. With morbid fascination, she watched icy fire blaze in his eyes.

“Why?” he repeated, lowering his voice to a deadly whisper. “Because we shagged once? Does that really have to ruin all this?”

No, she thought, because Malfoy would shag her again. She saw it in his posture; saw it in the way he was staring at her mouth. She knew it in his aggression, in his cold desperation. Like a moth to the flame, she felt her answer, low and hot in her belly.

“I… I just want us to be friends.” He pushed back from her desk, licking his lips and taking his intoxicating scent with him. Almost as an afterthought, he added, “Hermione.”

That called to mind alarming thoughts and images of his body between her thighs, of his hands on her waist, of his mouth on her breasts. She flushed, trying not to notice how his gaze was once again fixated on her mouth.  
  
Hermione Granger was an idiot. It was going to hurt when it changed, and it was going to change, no matter what Malfoy said. Nevertheless, horrible thought, she found herself unwilling to give it up until she had to. In a scant handful of visits, she was beginning to guess that, had Malfoy been given a fair chance, he would be able to understand her in ways that Ron, that Harry; that even Ginny had never bothered to explore. It was all only hinted at in whispered conversations about Unforgivables, but Hermione wasn’t at all ready to give it up until she had to. Call it stubbornness. Call it whatever.

“Aww, Malfoy,” she said, lightening her tone and beaming out a false cheerfulness. “You want to be friends with a Gryffindor! You believe in inter-house unity after all.”

“Ugh,” was all he said, but she caught the ghost of his smile as he let himself out of her office.

**

Friendship was an odd word, with a million different definitions. For Harry, it was all about support, all about loyalty, and all about standing by him until the end. It thrummed through her being, thick and true; it was the sort of thing worth dying for, with him and with Ron, whose friendship had been dragged through the muck and was now a mired strained thing, though she hoped to see the day it wasn’t so. With Ginny, it was sisterly devotion and affection. With all of them, it was easy and natural to feel as she did.

With Malfoy, it felt strange.

Still, friends did not merely meet in dark pubs and hide unseen in her flat. Friends got together in public, and if Malfoy truly wanted things to have a fighting chance at staying the same, that was going to be how it would have to play out.

She knew this, of course she did, but still she hovered, hand poised to knock on his office door. This act of attempting to make things stay the same would change everything. She knew that too. She was Hermione Granger, and she was smart, even if some crazy fool currently possessed her body. Everyone would know if she stepped out with him in the Wizarding world.

Gryffindor heart thudding, she knocked.

A moment passed, and then, from behind the door, Malfoy snapped, “What do you want? Come in.”

Thinking that that wasn’t the most welcoming of tones, Hermione turned the handle and stepped inside. Malfoy glanced up, surprise reflecting on his features, before he schooled his face into a more familiar cool mask.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said.

“Yes, it’s me,” she huffed. Then, because there was no other way than out with it, she stiffened her shoulders and declared, “It’s lunch time. Friends can take lunch together. Get coffee with me if this friendship is so important to you.” This next part was harder, and she grit her teeth before adding, “ _Draco_.”

Malfoy flashed her a wicked mockery of a grin, and she thought he still might be cross with her. Still, he signed whatever document he was reading with a flourish of his quill and rose, crossing his office to grab his cloak.

“Friends with a Slytherin, _Hermione_ ,” he said. “How alarming for all of your perfect little morals.”

“There’s a coffee shop down the street,” she said, seemingly unable to unclench her jaw.

“That will be perfect,” he replied.

If she’d bothered to look before shoving her way in front of him, Hermione would have seen his imitation smile soften. She would have been alarmed, or at least surprised, at the relaxed pleasure in his gaze. But Hermione didn’t turn, and by the time Malfoy caught up with her, setting a jaunty pace for her to match, he’d schooled his expression, and she saw nothing but caustic charm.


	3. Friday Night Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the war, Hermione and Draco meet at a Muggle pub, and it’s the start of something unexpected for both. Then, what good are expectations anyway? DHr.

Title: Friday Night Secrets  
Author: Edie  
Rating: R  
Disclaimer: Not mine!  
Word Count: 21,000-ish. Has to be split into ~~two~~ three parts. How annoying.  
Warnings: This is my way _out_ of the epilogue, so it does include Draco/Astoria and past Ron/Hermione, although it all ends up the way it should. Ahem. Language, sexual content, etc. Spoilers for _Braveheart_ in one scene.  
Dedication: [](http://bunney.livejournal.com/profile)[**bunney**](http://bunney.livejournal.com/), this is for you! I hope it can provide a moment’s distraction. *smooches*  
Summary: After the war, Hermione and Draco meet at a Muggle pub, and it’s the start of something unexpected for both. Then, what good are expectations anyway? DHr.

**Part Three**

The fall out from her friends was instantaneous, although Hermione had been expecting nothing less. You didn't go for lunch with your once nemesis and hope no one noticed, especially when that nemesis was as conspicuous as Malfoy was, or as she herself was for that matter. Still, nerves slowed her steps as she approached her building, finding Harry already there waiting.

Shaking her head, she said, "Don't you work?"

Harry smiled at her rather rakishly, acknowledging that he was indeed the worst Auror in the world. At least, thought Hermione, he was the laziest. Still she'd never been able to hold it against him. If anyone deserved a break, and all that.

Sighing, she let Harry into her building and followed him upstairs. While he made himself comfortable in the living room, she got them both a beer from her fridge, nearly tripping on Crookshanks on her way to join him.

"Let's cut to the chase, alright?" She made herself smile as she passed him his drink. "Let's start the intervention."

He held up his hands in the familiar gesture of surrender. "Hey, don't look at me, Hermione. I just heard rumours that the two of you went for lunch, and I thought I'd give you the benefit of the doubt."

"Don't bother." She plopped down beside him, stretching her feet out. "Let's just get the lecture part over with." She felt like a rather whiny defensive child about the whole thing, really.

Harry surprised her by laughing. "Fuck that! I'm much too lazy to attempt to stop you from doing anything, although don't expect that same leniency from Ginny. I've had to work with him occasionally and, as much as it kills me to say it, Malfoy's not a bad bloke. Annoying, opinionated, and judgmental, but not really _bad_."

"You forgot bigoted and irrational," she supplied helpfully. Then, because Harry looked so strangely supportive, she added, "I've been talking with him lately. We get on, that's all, now that Hogwarts is over."

"Get on how well?" he pried, green eyes narrowing.

She waved her hand dismissively. "Well enough."

"Well, you're a big girl, aren't you? I'm not going to tell you who to be friends with, just so long as you remember who your best one is." He elbowed her playfully in the side before throwing back a large gulp of beer. "Jesus, it's nice to be at your flat. It's so _quiet_ without a kid running around. Hey, mind if I put on Quidditch?"

Ginny came two hours later, under the guise of collecting her missing husband. She said nary a word, which rankled Hermione's nerves, but watched her intensely through suspicious eyes. It was a look Hermione knew all too well, a look reserved for complicated problems and formulas. Ginny was watching her like she was a puzzle waiting to be solved, and Ginny was going to solve it.

On the way out the door, she murmured, "Say hello to Malfoy, Hermione." Her cheeky wink upset Hermione more than anything else had. She closed the door on a wave of paranoia, and slunk like the guilty party back to her couch.

**

An owl arrived not two hours later, just as Hermione was brushing her teeth. It was the snobbiest looking bird she’d ever seen and, as she retrieved its missive, she fought to stifle a smile.

_Hope you survived the inevitable inquisition_ , it read. _Just had a lovely three-hour chat with dear old Dad. Will leave you to dream on the horrors of that._ He hadn’t bothered to sign it.

Without thinking through her actions, she brought the note to her bedroom, where she placed it in a box hidden in her closet. After placing it down on top of various mementos from Ron and Krum, she shut off the light and climbed into bed.

**

Friday afternoon, Malfoy came knocking at her office door just as she was putting the final touches on her paper work. She waved him in without looking up, suddenly in a rush to file her documents and get the hell out of here. It was a refreshing change, really, from being more than willing to spend every waking moment confined in the Ministry’s walls.

“What do you want?” She made sure not to sound friendly.

“Not to go to that same dingy pub or to be squished in your flat again, actually.” He waited an appropriate amount of time, obviously, so that she would feel maximum irritation. Then he smiled cheekily and added, “I’m being spontaneous this evening.”

However, Hermione knew Malfoy, and she knew he wasn’t the least bit spontaneous; knew he was just like her in that regard. She saw how much he liked planning in the way he glanced at her outfit—obviously it was not up to par with wherever they were headed—and in the way he kept glancing at the clock on her desk. At five oh two, he bugged his eyes at her in what she guessed was meant in an intriguing manner before setting a pocket watch down by her clock.

“I hate surprises,” she told him. After a moment’s thought, she added, “If that’s a Portkey, I hate those too.”

“You would,” he snarked, looking at her clock again. “It’s going off at 5:05. Just shut up and touch it.”

“No,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere. Go by yourself.”

However, at five oh four, she couldn’t help herself. Gritting her teeth, she reached a finger out and laid it beside his, trying to ignore his laughter, which was both smug and aggravating. She could feel the pull behind her belly button already and sincerely hoped he wasn’t bringing her anywhere too sinister. She was about to demand their destination when the pull strengthened. All she got out was the first syllable of his name before the world dissolved in a blur of colour.

They landed clumsily, Hermione coming down hard on Malfoy’s foot. Glaring at her, he scooted away, giving her space to take in her surroundings. They were in a house with an open floor plan, luxuriously decorated and well-kept, despite the fact that she didn’t think it was lived in. The heat was what she noticed next, heavy and moist, and… was that _waves_ crashing in the distance?

“Where are we?” she asked a touch suspiciously as she tugged at the heavy collar of her work sweater. Her robes felt weighted down and itchy.

“One of my parents houses on a Wizarding island off Greece. Very secluded and private. It’s one of many my family owns around the world. Vacationing spots, you know.” He waved away his comment with his hand.

This could have been said quite snobbishly, but his delivery was very matter-of-fact. The Malfoys had money, and that was the way it was. Everyone knew it, and there was no reason to hide it. It occurred to her that years ago he might have been flashy about it. Before Friday nights, that was.

“My parents are at the Manor,” he was saying. “You needn’t worry. Also, there aren’t any wards on this house. No Muggles come to this island. Touch whatever you please.”

Hermione would rather have chewed off her own arm than take his family at their word, but she smiled to keep the peace, trying to steal surreptitious looks at her surroundings. She could even smell the ocean here, salty, warm, and exotic.

“It’s lovely,” she said, to be polite.

Malfoy shrugged. “Of course it is. What did you expect? Some sort of Braveheart-esque hovel? Why don’t you go outside? I’ll try to round us up something to drink.”

Deciding to listen out of curiosity, Hermione made her way to the door and exited onto a porch that jutted out onto a white sandy beach. Although she wasn’t a stranger to travel and had gone with her parents on marvellous vacations as a girl, she could admit in the private recesses of her soul that this house was something, that this view was something. Staring at the glare off the water, she closed her eyes and felt the gentle breeze on her cheeks, the heat in her bones, and that intoxicating beach aroma all the way down to her toes.

However, it wouldn’t do to let on, and so she sat primly on one of two chairs on the porch, prepared to look quite at her leisure. Once she removed her robes. And her sweater. And unbuttoned the first two buttons of her blouse. Curse her practical tights all to hell; she thought the backs of her knees were sweating. Compromising with herself, she kicked off her shoes, curling her toes over sun-bleached wood.

Behind her, the door opened and closed. Before Malfoy had a chance to say anything, she said, “Honestly, Draco. You might have _warned_ me. I’ve nothing to wear, not even for a swim.”

A glass was shoved in her face, and she saw golden brown liquid waiting at the bottom of her cup. She sniffed it cautiously, suspecting poison—this _was_ Lucius Malfoy’s vacationing spot—but Malfoy only laughed at her.

“It’s scotch. We only have a house elf pop in here once in awhile. I haven’t been here in years. Seems my parents’ taste in fine alcohol runs towards pretentious.” Then, grin turning smarmy, he added, “By all means, feel free to swim in—”

“Can it, Draco,” she chided, but her smile wouldn’t die. “You’re the worst sort of pervert.”

He sighed, put upon. “I’m sure Mother’s got a suit lying around somewhere. That’s what I was going to say.”

Hermione nearly choked on her scotch, picturing the statuesque Narcissa Malfoy owning something that might even land in the same family as something that might fit her. But Malfoy was watching her expectantly, like he thought she might be bowled over by his generosity, allowing his mother’s pristine Pureblooded things to touch her Muggle-born self, and she felt she owed him an explanation that was more than a rude snort. If only because it seemed he was _trying_ to take the friendship seriously.

“During the war, I ate a lot of cheesecake and pies and other things. Molly Weasley is a fantastic cook,” she told him self-consciously. These were her stupidest darkest most embarrassing secrets, and it boggled her mind that she felt like she could share them with Malfoy. Perhaps, she thought, it was because he’d always judged her; in how many more ways could she possibly be judged?

Steeling herself, she continued. “I didn’t think I’d live through the war, you see, and then I thought if I was going to die, why say no to one delicious thing put before me? It was silly, of course. Then, afterwards it was one congratulations-we-won supper after another, and suddenly… Well.” She gestured at her middle, blushing.

Malfoy, the devil, looked confused. “What does you being a glutton have to do with my mother’s suit?”

“It won’t fit!” she snapped, exasperated.

It occurred to her that when he truly meant it, Malfoy’s grin could light up a room. “Why, Hermione, are you saying you’re _fatter_ than my mother?”

And Astoria, she added glumly, before spitting out, “Well, I’m not sure I would have used the word _fat_.”

“Soft?” he suggested, tittering.

“Re-active that Portkey.”

“Never.”

They lapsed into silence then. Hermione, who was definitely not nursing hurt feelings, glared at the ocean, and Malfoy, great injurer of said feelings, looked at nothing but his hands, clenched around his glass.

“I didn’t eat,” he said at last. “I was too busy sixth year and the more… the _harder_ everything got… there was just never time.”

She remembered him, gaunt and sickly looking, and told him that aloud.

His lip quirked. “You’re not fat, Hermione. I can quite honestly say that I’ve seen every inch of you—”

“Oh, don’t remind me.”

“—and that’s the last thing I’d call you. No one wants to fuck a stick.”

Despite how very Malfoy that compliment was it was a compliment all the same. She felt a rush of pleasure that warmed her cheeks and turned her insides to soup. Enjoying her case of warm fuzzies, Hermione leaned back in her chair and watched the sun dip down into the ocean, completely happy despite her better intentions. This _was_ nicer than a smoky pub or her messy flat and—

“Astoria wants to get married here,” Malfoy murmured.

That was breaking the rules. That was mentioning things that shouldn’t be mentioned. She gawked at the beach in a new light, as the warm good cheer in her belly clenched before withering and dying. She tried to ignore the punched-in-the-gut feeling because _friends_ could talk about this. Stealing a glance at Malfoy, she saw that he looked pensive and… unhappy. Yes, that was a good world for Malfoy, unhappy and perpetually unsatisfied.

“Really?” she made herself say. “It’s very beautiful here.”

Merlin help her, she hoped he wouldn’t invite her to the wedding.

Malfoy grunted and took a sip of his drink. “She hasn’t even been here. It’s one of our nicer spots though and Astoria is all about that.”

“She sounds lovely.”

That was using a tone, and Hermione slapped a hand over her mouth, horrified. She might as well have called her insipid right to Malfoy’s face. He glanced at her, bewildered, and then surprised her by laughing.

“Oh, she is,” he commented. “Now she’s nattering on about me being more spontaneous, so here we are.” He gestured at the beach.

That warm pleasure came back slowly but surely. Looking away, she said, “I’m sure she meant being more spontaneous with her, Draco.” You idiot, said her tone.

“Yes, but why would I want to bring her here? As riveting as the latest fashion trends are…” He trailed off and shook himself. “At least I can talk with you. Better than I thought we could… before.”

The truth popped out, unbidden. “I’m sorry I didn’t say hello to you sooner at the pub.”

Up went his eyebrow, familiar but still annoying. “Hermione, you didn’t say hello to me at _all_.”

“Well, I would have,” she snipped.

“No, and I wouldn’t have said hello to you either if I didn’t think you were an assassin or a Ministry spy.”

“How paranoid of you.” How stupid of us, she added to herself.

“Oh, you have no idea.” He shifted restlessly before downing the rest of his drink. Grandly, he gestured at the beach. “Let’s walk.”

Hermione wanted to do that too, but first she ducked in the house and got rid of her tights. Then, she let Malfoy lead her down, her toes curling at the heat still clinging to the sand. If their hands brushed as they walked, if their gazes turned as one to the beauty of the setting, surely that was friendship. And if her heart wouldn’t silence, then that was friendship too.

**

Ron showed up at her flat four days later, just as Hermione was getting out of the shower. He had a key still—that was her bad—and he called out to her, letting her know he was there. Heart pounding, Hermione dressed and patted at her hair, stalling. Crookshanks darted by her feet, disappearing under her bed, but then that wasn’t unusual either. Her cat had never really liked Ron.

When she came out of her room, he was waiting by the kitchen table, a small smile on his face. _Let’s work this out_ , that smile said. Hermione glanced at the table, remembering countless meals they’d shared there, and felt longing, though she knew at the heart of the matter that it was longing for his friendship, for what they’d had in Hogwarts, than for what they’d had after the war. Funny still that her own heart hurt a little, because it would have been _easier_ had she not felt that way.

Mrs. Hermione Weasley, she thought sadly.

“How’ve you been?” Ron started, his posture awkward. “It’s been awhile since we’ve chatted.”

“I’ve missed you.” And that was the God’s honest truth.

He smiled at her, very easy and very Ron. Her chest tightened as he said, “About that, Hermione. You don’t _have_ to—”

“Please don’t.” She sat down with a thud, chair scraping against her floor. Perhaps if he didn’t say it, perhaps if she didn’t have to… As a compromise, she added, “Nothing’s changed, Ron. I still work too much for you and you… you still want more than I can give. How’s that fair for you?”

His face fell, as she’d known it would. Hating herself more than a little, she gestured for him to sit. When he did, she said, “I miss us as friends. It’s like we took the most perfect thing in the world and ruined it. Don’t you miss that?”

Ron’s silence stretched and Hermione grew antsy. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her, the way that suggested he’d known her better than anyone else and could see right through her. Suddenly, she missed their friendship so much. All she wanted was to cry and have a good Ron cuddle, but then they’d never been friends like that, like she and Harry. The horrible threat of more had ruined everything and—

“Is there someone else, Hermione?” The shrewd expression on his face nearly undid her, but then they had gotten back together each time before. She couldn’t hold the thought against him.

“No!”

But that hadn’t done the trick, not at all. She’d spoken too fast, with too much fervour, which was ridiculous because there _was_ no one else. She was allowed to be friends with whomever she chose, and that didn’t mean… didn’t mean…

“No,” she repeated, softer this time.

Ron sucked in a loud breath, although she gave him credit. The look on his face wasn’t as accusing as she’d imagined it might be; he appeared sad, that was true, but she thought all at once it was sadness for her, and not for him.

“Malfoy,” he whispered. “I thought when I heard you two went for coffee, but Harry said… For fuck’s sakes, Hermione, he’s _engaged_.”

“No. Not Malfoy.”

But thou doth protest too much, she thought wildly. It was the first time she’d heard it aloud and suddenly, laid bare, the truth of the matter was too much for her. She thought of all the times her heart had raced, thought of the way in which he’d looked at her, in the privacy of their pub and her flat. She thought of her dislike for Astoria, and what she and Malfoy had done here months ago. She thought of it all.

Well, fuck.

Blinking at Ron with barely contained panic, she said the only thing she could think of. “Of course not. He’s getting married. It would be ridiculous. We’re only friends.”

Ron’s smile softened but his eyes were angry. No, his eyes were hurt. Still, his voice was steady when he said, “That’s fucked up, Hermione.”

“It’s not true,” she insisted. “I can talk to him, that’s all.”

But he was standing, leaving. She’d never seen resignation like that on his face before, not ever, and she gasped for air, feeling like her whole world was collapsing. There would be no going back from this.

“I’m cross with you. Of course I am.” He raked a hand through his hair, laughing without humour. “But you’re right. What we had before was good. Maybe someday…” He turned away on a sigh.

It took until the door clicked behind him for Hermione to dissolve into tears. Then, now that that last frontier had been braved, the tears came in earnest, until she was huddled on her kitchen floor, sobbing for all she was worth.

Hermione Granger was not the smartest witch of her generation. She was, in fact, the dumbest. Who else would fall for their most hated enemy, who was already engaged? Who else would endeavour to be his friend? Moments they’d spent together collided in her mind, and all that was left was one solid fact: she was alone. She’d gotten into this mess because she’d isolated herself from her friends, because she’d needed those blasted Muggles to remind herself, and she’d carried on with it because at least she’d had _him_. Now though… now…

“I hate Astoria.”

It came out like a childish whine, which only made her cry harder. Malfoy didn’t love Astoria, and Astoria didn’t love Malfoy, but they were going to go through with it, and Hermione would end up just as she’d started, alone and stupid.

No. Some last fighter’s instinct dragged her over to her fireplace, where she found the presence of mind to use the Floo. She wasn’t alone. It had always been an illusion. She’d isolated herself and she’d kept herself that way, but that didn’t mean it was her only avenue. Not at all.

Sticking her head in the flames, she choked out, “Ginny.”

A moment passed, and then Ginny was in her flat. Apparation, thought Hermione rather hysterically, was the perfect way past keys, and she hated the crackle of her buzzer. Ginny took one look at Hermione and fell to the floor, wrapping her arms around her friend. Hermione collapsed gratefully against her, breathing in her familiar perfume, basking in comfort.

“Realized you fancied Malfoy, did you?” Ginny asked, patting at her hair. “There now, Hermione.”

On impulse, Hermione told her friend everything. It came out gurgled and choppy—the timeline was off—but Ginny, to her credit, listened quietly until Hermione was done her pathetic tale.

“I’m the stupidest slag,” finished Hermione, frowning sadly.

“Nonsense,” shushed Ginny. “We all would have shagged him, you know. My question is this: how does Malfoy feel about you?”

“What does it matter?” To emphasise the pointlessness of everything, Hermione slumped dramatically forward. She wished the floor would swallow her whole.

“It matters a great deal. I’d say he fancies you back. Whisking you off to his island, indeed.” Her smile was kind as she pushed Hermione’s hair from her eyes. “Engagements can be broken, love. If you want him, get him.”

“He’s not going to go against his father.”

“He might,” said Ginny. “He just might.”

Then standing, she fetched some tissues and shoved them at Hermione, who blew her nose loudly and morosely. She let Ginny tug her up from the floor and take her to the kitchen, where her friend went about making them tea.

“Do you know what I do know?” When Hermione shook her head, Ginny continued. “No one loves a watering pot. Drink up, girl. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

**

Hermione did not feel better in the morning, nor did she feel better all week. As far as she was concerned, her acknowledgment was a shameful thing. His impending marriage loomed over her head, and the fact that she’d managed to chase away Ron and end up with nothing at all made her feel ill.

In the corridors at the Ministry, she avoided Malfoy like the plague. Chance glances of his silvery hair made her stomach twinge with loss—no matter what Ginny said, Hermione did not consider herself a home wrecker. She knew what she was going to have to do, and that was let Malfoy go. That was the brave option, the Hermione Granger Gryffindor option. Still, she’d catch herself daydreaming and seeing him wouldn’t have helped in the slightest. Halfway through the week, she began to suspect that he was taking a meandering route to his office, simply to walk by hers. The bugger.

On Thursday, the announcement arrived in the _Prophet_. She skimmed its pages, and read both of their interviews with tight lips. A love match, proclaimed Astoria. The best thing to ever happen to him, boasted Malfoy. Hermione chucked the thing in her rubbish, ignoring her burning eyes, before she had to read about the spot that the two had picked out to tie the knot.

At first, avoiding Malfoy seemed like cruel punishment, but as the days ticked by, Hermione realized it was, in fact, the best medicine. She was missing him before he was gone, that was true, but it was all she could think of to do. It was the only thing that sat right with her slightly skewed moral compass.

It was not very Gryffindor of her, but all Hermione wanted to do was save herself.

**

The thing with emotional upheaval was that it often resulted in a messy flat. Surveying the disaster that was her kitchen from the safe haven that was her couch, Hermione dug her fork into her take-away box and repressed a sigh. She hadn’t even been cooking much, for Merlin’s sake, and the place looked like a bomb had gone off. Good thing she was avoiding Malfoy, because having him over would have been a great shame.

The clock on her mantelpiece ticked. She’d been trying her damnedest not to look at it, but it was seven fifteen on a Friday night, and she was decked in her best pair of sweats and one of her father’s old t-shirts. She had no intention whatsoever of changing because she had no intentions whatsoever of visiting any pubs. She was going to unwind in her own way, and that way was going to be at home.

At seven twenty five, after ascertaining there was nothing on television, Hermione was shocked—well, horrified really—by the sound of her buzzer. Patting self-consciously at her hair, she threw one decisive look at her kitchen and told the intercom, “Bugger off, thank you. Not in the mood for company.”

The intercom cracked. Then, Malfoy’s voice, deep and smarmy said, “Oh, c’mon, love. Let me up. I’m in no state to stand about on your Muggle street.”

Her traitorous heart leapt. Panicked now, she glanced again at the kitchen, at the living room, at the hole in the knee of her trousers, and thought one thing and one thing only: _fuck_. Avoiding him was one thing, but turning him away was entirely—

Obviously having forgotten the necessity of letting go of the button, Malfoy hiccupped. Loudly. Hermione, hating herself, let him in.

He arrived—loudly again, it should be noted—just as she was trying to shove the dirtiest dishes in the sink while zapping at the rest with her wand. She heard the door smack the wall, heard him trip on shoes. Then he was in the kitchen, his smile wide and his cheeks flushed. She noted that his tie was askew, and that he really was quite a mess. A _fetching_ mess, but a mess all the same.

“Jesus, Malfoy,” she snapped, “what did you do? Hit the cups right after work?”

Although it didn’t seem possible, his smile stretched. “Matter of fact, I did. Knew you weren’t coming tonight. What crawled up your arse anyway? Thought I’d get a head start by myself but, honestly Granger, I’m _dull_ on my own.”

She was still trying to decide where to start when he pushed past her, going on about liquor whilst ransacking her cupboards.

“Harry’s beer is in the fridge,” she said tightly.

“What makes it Harry’s beer?” he queried, leaning against the door of the fridge. “Has it been fucking sainted?”

He laughed even though it wasn’t funny, and grabbed three from the side door, two for him and one presumably for her. She had half a mind to hit him with a sobering up charm, but then he winked at her, eyes bloodshot, belched loudly, and sashayed out of the kitchen, leaving her gaping at him.

“You look positively shaggable, by the way!” he bellowed, much too loudly. “Are you wearing a bra?”

“Draco, honestly.”

Crossing her arms, she joined him in the living room, trying not to sit too close to him on the couch. Her best efforts were ruined, however, when he threw an arm about her shoulders and yanked her close. He smelled of booze and cigarette smoke and expensive cologne—he smelled bloody fantastic, now that she noted it. If only she could plug her nose without looking odd, if only he’d stop touching her, if only—

“Bloody hell, Draco! Hands off!” She elbowed him for good measure, trying to extract herself from his vice-like grip. “You’re getting married in two damned weeks, and it’s about time you started acting like it.”

Saying it aloud hurt, but she squashed those feelings with bitter practice. Malfoy, the lout, did what drunks did best: he went from good-naturedly trying to cop a feel to staring morosely down into his beer.

“Aren’t your mates going to throw you a party?” she asked, voice as happy as she could make it. “Harry had a fantastic bash, from what I heard.”

Malfoy glared at her. “Oh yes, and who would I ask? Zabini?”

Narrowing her eyes at him, Hermione said, “What’s gotten into you? You’re never drunk like this.”

“You’ve got your knickers all in a twist with me,” he pouted, slumping against her. She let him, trying not to move, trying to remember the feel of him. “Also, I spoke with Astoria last night. That woman would drive even the most pious of blokes to drink.”

At that, Hermione had to look away. Biting her lip, she made herself say, “Oh?”

Malfoy snorted and shook his head, before lapsing into silence. She noticed abruptly that he’d managed to get hold of her hand, and was currently tracing the back of it with his thumb. It was unplanned, she supposed, but then the best moments with him always were. It was hard to ignore the lump in her throat, so Hermione decided to stay quiet. Malfoy, she saw, was staring at their hands.

“She loves Zabini,” he said at last. “It’s not just some fucking sexual thing.”

He sounded like he cared, and that cut through her like knives. Trying to regulate her breathing, she decided the most important thing in the world was that he never know. She could cry later, or she could—

“That’s not even the rub. She actually looked right at me and told me she was prepared to go through with it.” Anger seeped in, rising with every word he spoke. His whole body felt tense with it. If she wasn’t going for stiff upper lip, she might have been moved.

“Do you know why?” His tone was calm now, matter-of-fact. “Malfoy’s an older name. I have more big fucking houses. It all comes down to money in the end. Money is the truest thing in the world. It’s going to be all turn a blind eye for the rest of my goddamned life.”

A stolen glance revealed that he’d slumped his head down into his hands. She stared at him for a while, thinking about how he was always unhappy and perpetually unsatisfied. Distantly, she acknowledged this as his fault, but she was too close to the situation at the moment to say anything other than, “Do you love her now?”

He looked up then, and looked for a long time. She met his gaze and held it, reading there nothing but confusion and doubt. Possibly, he was scared, she couldn’t say for sure. Fear rose in her own belly, fear and anticipation combined with something much headier.

_I could have loved you in time._

The thought came unbidden, but the surprise didn’t dull its sharpness. She almost looked away, she would have looked away, but Malfoy’s hand shot out, his fingers curling around her chin and keeping her still.

“No,” he murmured. “She’s not the sort of woman I could love.”

And then he moved, slowly and cautiously. She knew it was going to happen before his lips brushed hers, before he kissed her feather light. Pain rocketed through her heart, making everything seem more desperate, more immediate.

It wasn’t like before, it wasn’t like the first time he’d kissed her in the slightest, and this time, she meant to remember. Dislodging her hand from his, she touched his cheek, his hair; when his mouth opened over hers, she was ready and waiting. Still, he was gentle and hesitant, even as she tried her hardest to hold his tongue in her mouth, even as the taste of alcohol crossed from him to her. He felt warm beneath her hands, warm and tense and uncertain. She felt like she’d touched him all her life, like her fingers knew him.

Abruptly, he moaned and shot forward, shifting them so that she was trapped on the couch by his weight. She opened her legs obligingly, sighing when he moved between her thighs. Then, he was everywhere, hands stroking her belly, her breasts, and her hips. His heaviness settled at her centre and she rocked up into him, wanton and needy, as her hands traced his back, his bum, his shoulders, everywhere she could reach. His lips drug a slow line over her face, his breath was nothing more than fleeting pants against her skin, and then his fingers were under that awful t-shirt, and she wasn’t wearing a bra, thank you, so it was all the easier for him to reach up and up and up until—

“Fuck, Granger,” he moaned, cupping her breast in his hand.

She thought of stupid things to say like _fuck_ me _, Malfoy_ , but she kept her mouth shut, holding him tight with her thighs so that he couldn’t move at all without pushing against her. The pad of his thumb rubbed her nipple, and she thought that one of them should be fully sober next time, and—

His other hand pushed at the waistband of her sweatpants, and it was like being doused in ice water. Gasping for breath, she thought of everything: of Malfoy’s unhappiness, of her stupid morals, of Astoria’s selfishness, of their own selfishness, and of everything she had never dreamed of doing. Stifling a cry, she pushed his chest hard and squirmed out from under him, retreating to the other side of the living room.

There was a moment of tense standoff. Malfoy’s shirt was really mussed now; she daren’t look at his trousers. Fire blazed in his eyes, and, feeling like a frozen wasteland inside, she met it with ice. Role reversal, or some such rot, but it was all she could think of, outside of the truth.

Which was this: “I can’t do this anymore.”

It came out rather whiny, which she loathed, so she lifted her chin and braced herself before continuing.

“I can’t, Draco. I just can’t. This isn’t _friendship_ , and it’s not fair for any of us. You can’t use me for emotional comfort because you’re too scared to _not_ marry Astoria. You can’t fool around with me like I’m some… some… _call girl_ , and then go running home to your future wife.” Her chin was trembling pathetically and that lump in her throat made it hard to push on, almost as much as his strange silence did. She couldn’t hold eye contact for the last bit, but she still managed to choke out, “You can’t have both of us, Draco. That’s just not right.”

Silence settled heavily over the room. Wringing her shirt in her hands, she urged him to speak; thought of all the things she wanted him to say. _I won’t marry her_ for starters, or _I could love you, Hermione_. Dipping his head into his hands, he shuddered. From a distance, she watched his own pain ripple through his body. Only perhaps pain was too strong a word.

Then he spoke.

“I’m too sloshed to go home.”

It was like a punch in the gut; Hermione literally wanted to double over. Steeling herself, she stopped fidgeting with her shirt and crossed her arms, trying to channel her best McGonagall.

“Sober yourself up,” she sniffed.

Malfoy flinched. Then he looked up, searching her face for… something. His expression was oddly pensive. It was completely foreign. All she wanted was for him to say what she wanted to hear. All she wanted was to join him on the couch. She didn’t move.

“I don’t know what you want, Hermione,” he murmured. “Nothing’s changed. I just… I wish you were different. I wish we could be different.”

All of the pain in her belly exploded into anger. Glaring at him, she all but shouted, “I think it’s perfectly clear what I want, Malfoy. I want you to man up. For once in your pathetic life, I want you to do what’s right. I want you to grow a pair, for fuck’s sake, and I want you out of my flat.”

She glared for a second more, jabbing a finger violently in the direction of the door. Without waiting to see if he would listen, she spun on her heels and marched to her bedroom, slamming that door hard behind her. Seconds passed; then, Malfoy was moving in the living room.

_Come in here_ , she thought. _Make it right_.

The door out of her flat opened and closed with a soft click. Slumping against her bedroom door, Hermione tasted rejection, bitter and overwhelming. The clock in the living room chimed eight oh clock, and found her not in tears, but staring hard at the wall, expression stony.

It was dreadful to lose what you never bargained on wanting in the first place.

**

In a perfect world, the next two weeks would have flown by. The truth was, they passed at an awful crawl. Ginny made herself available and so, awkwardly, did Harry. Hermione tried her hardest to lose herself in work, but she was too aware of everything. More specifically, she was too aware of the calendar.

Malfoy didn’t come. Although she stayed in her office late, he did not pop by, nor did he wander by in the corridor. _Fix it_ , she thought, but thinking on it hard and often changed nothing. She’d thrown down the gauntlet and Malfoy had not risen to the occasion.

Typical.

The day of the wedding, Ginny showed up, armed with enough vodka to kill a small army and a gloriously understanding smile. They sat on the couch and didn’t speak of Malfoy, or anything at all really. Hermione thought of beaches and white sand; thought of big houses that Astoria had never even seen. She thought of everything and nothing, but by that evening, she was done for.

Holding it together for Ginny’s sake, Hermione waited until her friend was gone before balling up in bed. _Mrs. Astoria Malfoy_ , she mused; only then did she cry, long and hard and bitter, late into the night.

**

The _Prophet_ hit her door Saturday morning with a smack. Blurry eyed, she made herself get it, only to find herself gawking at the headline. Joy rushed through her, alleviating all of last night’s pain. Hope was the most freeing of emotions, and she felt giddy with it. Her hands shook as she made herself read the article.

_Malfoy Heir Calls Off Wedding; Cites Irreconcilable Differences._

Hermione read about uproar, about angry parents. She gawked at the photo of Astoria Greengrass, slipping out of the Manor with an eager smile on her face. Then, she showered and dressed; cleaned her kitchen. With Crookshanks on her lap, she made herself wait patiently on the couch, although that blasted clock had never seemed so loud.

Malfoy did not come.

**

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.

It was inconceivable that he didn’t want either one of them, when they were both so different that one of them surely had to be his type. Astoria Greengrass, Hermione had read, had already run off with Zabini. Draco Malfoy, Hermione noticed, had apparently given up on showing up for work.

Anticipation killed her all of Monday, all of Tuesday. Wednesday was a day for bewildered hurt. How could she have misread him? She, who was supposed to be so bright? How could she have fallen for someone so impossible and infuriating? Who, of the two of them, was the bigger idiot?

And still Malfoy did not come.

**

Thursday was a day for decisions. She thought of overhauling her flat, of making it light and new and perfect. She thought of stupid things, like new wardrobes and a different hairstyle. She voluntarily went over to play with James, thinking eagerly of a future where she was free to have these things, not with Ron and not with Malfoy, but with someone.

And she was happy. In a way.

**

Friday was a day for goodbye. There was only one place, really, to do that.

**

The Muggle pub, two blocks away from Hermione Granger’s London flat, was dark and smoky. Loud music pumped, invading every nook and cranny, wrapping around the men and women involved in secret conversations, and making the vodka water in Hermione’s glass vibrate in time to the beat.

Hermione Granger had once loved people watching, but tonight, she was watching just one person.

He’d come fifteen minutes after her, blond hair shining like a beacon and a strange expression on his face. He’d seen her—he’d nodded—but he did not come. She sat, hands clenched around her glass, as he moved through the crowd, heading for the bar. It seemed to her that he was dragging his feet, that he was taking his time. He couldn’t mean to avoid her, not here, not forever.

In the face of the moment, the anticipation was unbearable. Never had she’d dreamed he’d show.

Then he was turning, walking with a drink in hand towards her table. He stopped by the chair and didn’t sit, smile strangely hesitant. She wanted to kick the chair at him, to make him sit, but she didn’t move, and she didn’t speak.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he breathed at last. “I thought you were done with it. With _me_.”

Hermione looked away. Secretly, she thought his eyes were too much.

“I’m not going to come here anymore,” she whispered, wondering if he’d even hear her. “I came to say goodbye.”

Malfoy’s hand came down on the table, inches from her own. She imagined she could feel the heat from his skin, but that was all wishful rot. Her heart pounded.

“Not goodbye to me?”

Questioning was a strange way for Malfoy to sound. She looked back up at him, at the cautious tilt of his lips, and felt his own anticipation, his own nerves, echo in her belly. She wanted to touch his hand, but she forced herself to stay still. The ball, she figured, was still very much in his court.

“I heard you called off the wedding,” she made herself say. “Good on you. I’m sure your parents are furious with you.”

He smiled full on then, and she thought she’d never get used to it. More importantly, he pulled out the chair and sat across from her. His little finger brushed her hand, but it might have been an accident. It might have been a mistake.

“Not as furious as they’re going to be.”

“I don’t want to be your friend.”

Malfoy huffed out a gush of air, and nodded sharply.

“You didn’t come. All week. If you think we’re going to be friends now—”

“Oh, give me a break, Granger. _Manning up_ doesn’t come easily to all of us. I'm here now.”

Happiness threatened to erupt in her stomach. She felt curiously light-headed. The way Malfoy was looking at her was different, softer, and she thought she could guess at the truth without him saying it. She couldn’t still her hands, not any longer; when she touched the back of his hand, it was not on accident. A beat, and then his hand was turning, opening. His fingers curled strongly around hers, and he smiled again.

“Careful. Your face might freeze that way.” She laughed at her own joke, before leaning forward, feeling reckless and daring. “Hey, Malfoy, do you really want to stick it to your parents?”

**

They went back to her flat, Apparating from the alleyway, rather than making the short trek on foot. She led him to the bedroom by the hand, feeling nervous and light and free. Malfoy tittered when she closed the door behind them, but before she could think of why, he had closed the space between them, capturing her face in his hands and touching her mouth gently with his own. She let him tease her lips, in no hurry. Time stretched before them endlessly, with no looming engagements or forbidden Friday night secrets.

“How many Muggles are you shagging this week?” she asked, giggling when he guided them to the bed, covering her body with his own.

He took a time out from appreciating the spot beneath her ear to snort. “Honestly, Hermione. Do shut up.”

“What romantic sex talk,” she sighed. “You’re truly a regular Casanova.”

His laughter whispered against her neck as his hands lifted her thighs around his hips. She could feel him everywhere, every glorious inch of him, and when he surged forward, there was nary a thought in her mind that didn’t in some way involve him. She suspected her smile was too sweet and sappy, but then his was no better.

In it, she read one simple truth: _I could love you in time_.

Afterwards, he cuddled her close into his side, fingers tickling a relaxing rhythm over her waist. She let herself bask in the silence for a while, pressing kisses against his chest, but she was Hermione Granger and remaining quiet just wasn’t her forte.

“You’re single now, Draco,” she pointed out in between kisses. “What do you mean to do with yourself?”

“Well, I thought I could man up again.” He wiggled his hips suggestively, before dropping a kiss of his own into her hair. A moment passed, and she could only hear his heart race because her cheek was so close. He tightened his grip on her waist, before saying, “Hadn’t really planned on _staying_ single, if you catch my meaning.”

The false playfulness of his tone warmed her. Pushing up on one elbow, she wagged a finger at him. “Any girl would be crazy to date you with all of your blasted arrangements and traditions. What crazy fool wants to worry about how many other girlfriends you’d have?”

“Oh, there would just be one,” he assured. “Met this girl at a Muggle pub of all strange places. She put all kinds of crazy ideas in my head.”

“Did she?” Hermione murmured, finding his mouth with her own.

Malfoy indulged that for a moment before pulling her on top of him with a chuckle. He placed his hands firmly on her hips, and made eyes up at her.

“What did she teach you?” demanded Hermione, refusing to move just where he wanted without an answer.

He rolled his eyes and pinched her. Then, so quietly she almost missed it, he whispered one word and one word only.

“Freedom.”

“Pfft,” she said, and kissed him.

**The End.**


End file.
